“I wish it were true, mother,” muttered Joe in a voice scarcely audible.
“What's that?”
“Nowt.”
“I'll go over to Shoulth'et to-morrow,” purred Mrs. Garth. “If the old man made no will, I'll maybe have summat to say as may startle them a gay bit.”
The woman grunted to herself at the prospect. “Ey, ey,” she mumbled, “it'll stop their match-makin'. Ey, ey, and what's mair, what's mair, it'll bring yon Ralph back helter-skelter.”
“Mother, mother,” cried the blacksmith, “can you never leave that ugly thing alone?”
CHAPTER XXI. MRS. GARTH AT SHOULTHWAITE.
The next day or two passed by with Rotha like a dream. Her manners had become even gentler and her voice even softer than before, and the light of self-consciousness had stolen into her eyes. Towards the evening of the following day Liza Branthwaite ran up to the Moss to visit her. Rotha was in the dairy at the churn, and when Liza pushed open the door and came unexpectedly upon her she experienced a momentary sense of confusion which was both painful and unaccountable. The little lady was herself flushed with a sharp walk, and muffled up to the throat from a cutting wind.
“Why, Rotha, my girl, what ever may be the matter with you?” said Liza, coming to a pause in the middle of the floor, and, without removing the hands that had been stuffed up her sleeves from the cold, looking fixedly in her face.