It was very dark, and nothing was to be seen but the red glow of a few smouldering embers on the hearth. Towards these the girl went.
“And what do you think has become of your flock of sheep, my good girl?” inquired Frank, kindly, remembering her interests while he stood there wringing the water out of his coat skirts.
“Oh, the bell-wether has led them all into the pen long ago, sir. They are always safe when they are once in the glen,” replied the child, as she lighted a candle.
The sudden glare of the light showed a rude apartment, with an earth floor, log walls, and a fire-place of unhewn stone. On the right of the fire-place stood a poor bedstead, upon which lay a venerable, white-haired old man, covered with a faded counterpane, and near the bed sat an old, chip-bottomed arm-chair. On the left of the fire-place were two rough plank shelves, the lower shelf adorned with a few pewter plates and mugs; the upper one filled with——books!—piles of old dingy, musty books; and near these shelves stood a spinning-wheel, with a broach of yarn on the spindle, and a basket of broaches under it. At the opposite end of the room, one corner was occupied by a little old oak table, and the other by a ladder leading up through a trap-door into the loft overhead. A few rude stools were ranged along the walls, junks of smoked venison, ropes of onions, bunches of dried herbs, hanks of yarn, and the old man’s old hat and coat garnished the walls. All this was seen at a glance.
“Is your grandfather sick?” inquired Frank.
The girl turned her eyes wistfully towards the venerable sleeper, and did not reply.
“Is your grandfather sick?” repeated Fairfax.
The child raised her eyes sorrowfully to the face of the young man, and remained silent.
“Is he so very sick?” earnestly reiterated Frank.
“He is not sick, sir,” answered the girl, in a low, sad voice.