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.”