“So it is, so it is; and you're grown weak, father. I'll go myself. Liza Branthwaite will come here and fill my place.”
“No, no, I'll go; yes, that I will,” said Sim. Rotha's ardor of soul had conquered her father's apprehension of failure.
“It's only for a fortnight at most, that's all,” added Sim.
“No more than that. If Ralph is not found in a fortnight, make your way home.”
“But he shall be found, God helping me, he shall,” said Sim.
“He will help you, father,” said Rotha, her eyes glistening with tears.
“When should I start away?”
“To-morrow, at daybreak; that's as I could wish you,” said Rotha.
“To-morrow—Sunday? Let it be to-night. It will rain to-morrow, for it rained on Friday. Let it be to-night, Rotha.”
“To-night, then,” said the girl, yielding to her father's superstitious fears. Thrusting her hand deep into a pocket, she added, “I have some money, not much, but it will find you lodgings for a fortnight.”