a little girl, and you should have told me."

"Have done!" It was all that he could say, for like many he had heard of
men visiting the Painted Lady by stealth, and he had only wondered, with
other gossips, who they were.

He crossed again to the side of the dead woman, "And Ballingall's was
the only corpse you ever saw straiked?" he said in wonder, she had done
her work so well. But he was not doubting her; he knew already that this
girl was clothed in truthfulness.

"Was it you that kept this house so clean?" he asked, almost irritably,
for he himself was the one undusted, neglected-looking thing in it, and
he was suddenly conscious of his frayed wristband and of buttons hanging
by a thread.

"Yes."

"What age are you?"

"I think I am thirteen."

He looked long at her, vindictively she thought, but he was only
picturing the probable future of a painted lady's child, and he said
mournfully to himself, "Ay, it does not even end here; and that's the
crowning pity of it." But Grizel only heard him say, "Poor thing!" and
she bridled immediately.

"I won't let you pity me," she cried.

"You dour brat!" he retorted. "But you need not think you are to have
everything your own way still. I must get some Monypenny woman to take
you till the funeral is over, and after that--"

"I won't go," said Grizel, determinedly, "I shall stay with mamma till
she is buried."

He was not accustomed to contradiction, and he stamped his foot. "You
shall do as you are told," he said.

"I won't!" replied Grizel, and she also stamped her foot.

"Very well, then, you thrawn tid, but at any rate I'll send in a woman
to sleep with you."

"I want no one. Do you think I am afraid?"

"I think you will be afraid when you wake up in the darkness, and find
yourself alone with--with it."

"I sha'n't, I shall remember at once that she is to be buried nicely in
the cemetery, and that will make me happy."

"You unnatural--"

"Besides, I sha'n't sleep, I have something to do."

His curiosity again got the better of the doctor. "What can you have to
do at such a time?" he demanded, and her reply surprised him:

"I am to make a dress."

"You!"

"I have made them before now," she said indignantly.

"But at such a time!"

"It is a black dress," she cried, "I don't have one, I am to make it
out of mamma's."

He said nothing for some time, then "When did you think of this?"

"I thought of it weeks ago, I bought crape at the corner shop to be
ready, and--"

She thought he was looking at her in horror, and stopped abruptly. "I
don't care what you think," she said.

"What I do think," he retorted, taking up his hat, "is, that you are a
most exasperating lassie. If I bide here another minute I believe you'll
get round me."

"I don't want to get round you."

"Then what makes you say such things? I question if I'll get an hour's
sleep to-night for thinking of you!"

"I don't want you to think of me!"

He groaned. "What could an untidy, hardened old single man like me do
with you in his house?" he said. "Oh, you little limmer, to put such a
thought into my head."

"I never did!" she exclaimed, indignantly.

"It began, I do believe it began," he sighed, "the first time I saw you
easying Ballingall's pillows."

"What began?"

"You brat, you wilful brat, don't pretend ignorance. You set a trap to
catch me, and--"

"Oh!" cried Grizel, and she opened the door quickly. "Go away, you
horrid man," she said.

He liked her the more for this regal action, and therefore it enraged
him. Sheer anxiety lest he should succumb to her on the spot was what
made him bluster as he strode off, and "That brat of a Grizel," or "The
Painted Lady's most unbearable lassie," or "The dour little besom" was
his way of referring to her in company for days, but if any one agreed
with him he roared "Don't be a fool, man, she's a wonder, she's a
delight," or "You have a dozen yourself, Janet, but I wouldna neifer
Grizel for the lot of them." And it was he, still denouncing her so long
as he was contradicted, who persuaded the Auld Licht Minister to
officiate at the funeral. Then he said to himself, "And now I wash my
hands of her, I have done all that can be expected of me." He told
himself this a great many times as if it were a medicine that must be
taken frequently, and Grizel heard from Tommy, with whom she had some
strange conversations, that he was going about denouncing her "up hill
and down dale." But she did not care, she was so--so happy. For a hole
was dug for the Painted Lady in the cemetery, just as if she had been a
good woman, and Mr. Dishart conducted the service in Double Dykes before
the removal of the body, nor did he say one word that could hurt Grizel,
perhaps because his wife had drawn a promise from him. A large gathering
of men followed the coffin, three of them because, as yon may remember,
Grizel had dared them to stay away, but all the others out of sympathy
with a motherless child who, as the procession started, rocked her arms
in delight because her mamma was being buried respectably.

Being a woman, she could not attend the funeral, and so the chief
mourner was Tommy, as you could see by the position he took at the
grave, and by the white bands Grizel had sewn on his sleeves. He was
looking very important, as if he had something remarkable in prospect,
but little attention was given him until the cords were dropped into the
grave, and a prayer offered up, when he pulled Mr. Dishart's coat and
muttered something about a paper. Those who had been making ready to
depart swung round again, and the minister told him if he had anything
to say to speak out.

"It's a paper," Tommy said, nervous yet elated, and addressing all,
"that Grizel put in the coffin. She told me to tell you about it when
the cords fell on the lid."

"What sort of a paper?" asked Mr. Dishart, frowning.

"It's--it's a letter to God," Tommy gasped.

Nothing was to be heard except the shovelling of earth into the grave.
"Hold your spade, John," the minister said to the gravedigger, and then
even that sound stopped. "Go on," Mr. Dishart signed to the boy.

"Grizel doesna believe her mother has much chance of getting to heaven,"
Tommy said, "and she wrote the letter to God, so that when he opens the
coffins on the last day he will find it and read about them."

"About whom?" asked the stern minister.

"About Grizel's father, for one. She doesna know his name, but the
Painted Lady wore a locket wi' a picture of him on her breast, and it's
buried wi' her, and Grizel told God to look at it so as to know him. She
thinks her mother will be damned for having her, and that it winna be
fair unless God damns her father too."

"Go on," said Mr. Dishart.

"There was three Thrums men--I think they were gentlemen--" Tommy
continued, almost blithely, "that used to visit the Painted Lady in the
night time afore she took ill. They wanted Grizel to promise no to tell
about their going to Double Dykes, and she promised because she was ower
innocent to know what they went for--but their names are in the letter."

A movement in the crowd was checked by the minister's uplifted arm. "Go
on," he cried.

"She wouldna tell me who they were, because it would have been
breaking her promise," said Tommy, "but"--he looked around him
inquisitively--"but they're here at the funeral."

The mourners were looking sideways at each other, some breathing hard,
but none dared to speak before the minister. He stood for a long time in
doubt, but at last he signed to John to proceed with the filling in of
the grave. Contrary to custom all remained. Not until the grave was
again level with the sward did Mr. Dishart speak, and then it was with a
gesture that appalled his hearers. "This grave," he said, raising his
arm, "is locked till the day of judgment."

Leaving him standing there, a threatening figure, they broke into groups
and dispersed, walking slowly at first, and then fast, to tell their
wives.




CHAPTER XXXII

AN ELOPEMENT


The solitary child remained at Double Dykes, awaiting the arrival of her
father, for the Painted Lady's manner of leaving the world had made such
a stir that the neighbors said he must have heard of it, even though he
were in London, and if he had the heart of a stone he could not desert
his bairn. They argued thus among themselves, less as people who were
sure of it than to escape the perplexing question, what to do with
Grizel if the man never claimed her? and before her they spoke of his
coming as a certainty, because it would be so obviously the best thing
for her. In the meantime they overwhelmed her with offers of everything
she could need, which was kindly but not essential, for after the
funeral expenses had been paid (Grizel insisted on paying them herself)
she had still several gold pieces, found in her mamma's beautiful
tortoise-shell purse, and there were nearly twenty pounds in the bank.

But day after day passed, and the man had not come. Perhaps he resented
the Painted Lady's ostentatious death; which, if he was nicely strung,
must have jarred upon his nerves. He could hardly have acknowledged
Grizel now without publicity being given to his private concerns. Or he
may never have heard of the Painted Lady's death, or if he read of it,
he may not have known which painted lady in particular she was. Or he
may have married, and told his wife all and she had forgiven him, which
somehow, according to the plays and the novels, cuts the past adrift
from a man and enables him to begin again at yesterday. Whatever the
reason, Grizel's father was in no hurry to reveal himself, and though
not to her, among themselves the people talked of the probability of his
not coming at all. She could not remain alone at Double Dykes, they all
admitted, but where, then, should she go? No fine lady in need of a
handmaid seemed to think a painted lady's child would suit; indeed,
Grizel at first sight had not the manner that attracts philanthropists.
Once only did the problem approach solution; a woman in the Den-head was
willing to take the child because (she expressed it) as she had seven
she might as well have eight, but her man said no, he would not have his
bairns fil't. Others would have taken her cordially for a few weeks or
months, had they not known that at the end of this time they would be
blamed, even by themselves, if they let her go. All, in short, were
eager to show her kindness if one would give her a home, but where was
that one to be found?

Much of this talk came to Grizel through Tommy, and she told him in the
house of Double Dykes that people need not trouble themselves about her,
for she had no wish to stay with them. It was only charity they brought
her; no one wanted her for herself. "It is because I am a child of
shame," she told him, dry-eyed.

He fidgeted on his chair, and asked, "What's that?" not very honestly.

"I don't know," she said, "no one will tell me, but it is something you
can't love."

"You have a terrible wish to be loved," he said in wonder, and she
nodded her head wistfully. "That is not what I wish for most of all,
though," she told him, and when he asked what she wished for most of
all, she said, "To love somebody; oh, it would be sweet!"

To Tommy, most sympathetic of mortals, she seemed a very pathetic little
figure, and tears came to his eyes as he surveyed her; he could always
cry very easily.

"If it wasna for Elspeth," he began, stammering, "I could love you, but
you winna let a body do onything on the sly."

It was a vague offer, but she understood, and became the old Grizel at
once. "I don't want you to love me," she said indignantly; "I don't
think you know how to love."

"Neither can you know, then," retorted Tommy, huffily, "for there's
nobody for you to love."

"Yes, there is," she said, "and I do love her and she loves me."

"But wha is she?"

"That girl." To his amazement she pointed to her own reflection in the
famous mirror the size of which had scandalized Thrums. Tommy thought
this affection for herself barely respectable, but he dared not say so
lest he should be put to the door. "I love her ever so much," Grizel
went on, "and she is so fond of me, she hates to see me unhappy. Don't
look so sad, dearest, darlingest," she cried vehemently; "I love you,
you know, oh, you sweet!" and with each epithet she kissed her
reflection and looked defiantly at the boy.

"But you canna put your arms round her and hug her," he pointed out
triumphantly, and so he had the last word after all. Unfortunately
Grizel kept this side of her, new even to Tommy, hidden from all others,
and her unresponsiveness lost her many possible friends. Even Miss
Ailie, who now had a dressmaker in the blue-and-white room, sitting on a
bedroom chair and sewing for