Qualms she had, and some whisper at the bottom of her mind
was heard with a clearness sufficient to make her uncomfortable, but reason
held a feeble citadel at best in Joan's mind. The whisper died, memory
spoke of the notable value which wise men through long past years had
placed upon this charm, and in the face of the future it seemed wicked to
reject a thing of such proven efficacy. So she picked up the adder's
slough, designing to sew it upon a piece of flannel and henceforth wear it
against her skin until her baby should be born. But she determined to tell
neither Mary nor her uncle, though she did not stop to ask why secrecy thus
commended itself to her.
That evening Mary came primed from church-going with grave admonition, Mr.
Chirgwin was tearful, and hinted at his own sorrow arising from Joan's
backsliding, but Mary did not mince language and spoke what she thought.
"You'm wrong, an' you knaw you'm wrong," she said. "The crosses be very
well, an' coorious, butivul things to see 'pon the land tu, but they'm poor
food to a body's sawl. They caan't shaw wheer you'm out; they caan't lead
'e right."
"Iss they can, then, an' they do," declared Joan. "The more I bide along
wi' 'em the better I feel an' the nearer to God A'mighty, so theer! They'm
allus the same, an' they puts thots in my head that's good to think; an' I
must go my ways, Polly, same as you go yours.
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