“He's olas running on that, too,” whispered Mattha to Rotha. “Dusta mind 'at laal Reuben said the same?”
In a soft and pleading tone Robbie mumbled on,—
“Don't greet, mammy, or ye'll kill me sure enough. Killing you? Ey, it's true it's true; but I'll mend my management—I will.” There were sobs in Robbie's voice, but no tears in his bloodshot eyes.
“There, there, Robbie,” whispered Mrs. Branthwaite soothingly in his ear; “rest thee still, Robbie, rest thee still.”
It was a pitiful scene. The remorse of the poor, worn, wayward, tender-hearted lad seemed to rend the soul in his unconscious body.
“If he could but sleep!” said Mrs. Branthwaite; “but he cannot.”
Liza got up and went out.
Robbie struggled to raise himself on one elbow. His face, red as a furnace, was turned aside as though in the act of listening for some noise far away. Then in a thick whisper he said,—
“Fifty strides north of the bridge. No dreaming about it—north, I say, north.”
Robbie sank back exhausted, and Rotha prepared to leave.