"Nay, I won't; I'll walk home. When I hev hed a talk wi' Sarah I won't mind t' walk one bit Is she at t' old cottage yet?"
"Ay, she is. She told me she would bide until t' new-year."
In fact, Sarah had gone back to her old home at the beginning of Joyce's troubles, and after bidding Steve and his family good-by in Liverpool, she returned to the room she had occupied in it. For the cottage had a certain place in her heart; her earliest and tenderest memories were linked with its small rooms, and she wished to leave them as spotless as lime and soap and labor could make them.
Two days she spent in this work, but the day before Christmas she had given for many a year to decorating the chapel for the festival. Last Christmas she had been in too great poverty and anxiety to undertake it, and therefore she was the more eager to make up this year what had been lacking of her service. So from morning to night she was busy in the chapel, and she was just arranging the last cluster of berries when she heard some one call her.
"Sarah!"
The voice was a strong, cheery one, and her
