Willy Ray had not returned from Carlisle. He had exchanged scarcely six words with her since the interview previously recorded. Rotha had not come to Shoulthwaite for Willy's satisfaction. Neither would she leave it for his displeasure.
When the girl reached the weaver's cottage and entered the sick-room, Mattha himself was sitting at the fireside, with a pipe, puffing the smoke up the chimney. Mrs. Branthwaite was bathing the sick man's head, from which the hair had been cut away. Liza was persuading herself that she was busy sewing at a new gown. The needle stuck and stopped twenty times a minute. Robbie was delirious.
“Robbie, Robbie, do you know who has come to see you?” said Liza, bending over him.
“Ey, mother, ey, here I am, home at last,” muttered Robbie.
“He's ram'lin' agen,” said Mattha from the chimney corner.
“Bless your old heart, mammy, but I'll mend my management. I will, that I will. It's true this time, mammy, ey, it is. No, no; try me again just once, mammy!”
“He's forever running on that, poor lad,” whispered Mattha. “I reckon it's been a sair point with him sin' he put auld Martha intil t' grund.”
“Don't greet, mammy; don't greet.”
Poor Liza found the gown wanted close attention at that moment. It went near enough to her eyes.
“I say it was fifty strides to the north of the bridge! Swear it? Ey, swear it!” cried Robbie at a fuller pitch of his weakened voice.