“You shall beat the time, my patriarch,” said Monsey.
“Nay, man; it's thy place to kill it,” answered Matthew.
“Then you shall mark the beat, or beat the mark, or make your mark. You could never write, you know.”
It was a sight not to be forgotten to see the little schoolmaster brandishing his fiddlestick, beating time with his foot, and breaking out into a wild shout when he hit upon some happy idea, for he rejoiced in a gift of improvisation. A burst of laughter greeted the climax of his song, which turned on an unheroic adventure of old Matthew's. The laughter had not yet died away when a loud knocking came to the door. Ralph jumped to his feet.
“I said some one was coming; and he's been here before, whoever he is.”
At that he walked to the door and opened it. Laddie was there before him.
“Is Ralph Ray here?”
It was the voice of a woman, charged with feeling.
Ralph's back had been to the light, and hence his face had not been recognized. But the light fell on the face of the new-comer.
“Rotha!” he said. He drew her in, and was about to shut out the storm behind her.