Looking up, she saw the girl's brown eyes fixed on her face.

They were singularly soft, brooding brown.
"Ye 'r' goin' to th' mill, Miss Marg'et ?" she asked, in a half whisper.
"Yes.

You never go there now, Lois ?" "No, 'm." The girl shuddered, and then tried to hide it in a laugh.

Margret walked on beside her, her hand on the cart's edge.

Somehow this creature, that Nature had thrown impatiently aside as a failure, so marred, imperfect, that even the dogs were kind to her, came strangely near to her, claimed recognition by some subtile instinct.
Partly for this, and partly striving to forget herself, she glanced furtively at the childish face of the distorted little body, wondering what impression the shifting dawn made on the unfinished soul that was looking out so intently through the brown eyes.