There was something in her heart that told her that to-day's event was big with issues. And, truly, an angel of light had led her to that dark house.
The sun was gone. A vapory mist was preceding the night. The dead day lay clammy on her hands and cheeks.
When she reached the Fornside road, her eyes turned towards the smithy. There it was, and a bright red glow from the fire, white at its hissing heart, lit up the air about it. Rotha could hear the thick breathing of the bellows and the thin tinkle of the anvil. Save for these all was silent. What was the secret of the woman who lived there? That it concerned her father, Ralph, herself, and all people dear to her, was as clear as day to Rotha. The girl then resolved that, come what should or could, that secret should be torn from the woman's heart.
The moon was struggling feebly through a ridge of cloud, lighting the sky at moments like a revolving lamp at sea. On the road home Rotha passed two young people who were tripping along and laughing as they went.
“Good night, Rotha,” said the young dalesman.
“Good night, dear,” said his sweetheart.
Rotha returned the salutations.
“Fine lass that,” said the young fellow in a whisper.
“Do you think so? She's too moapy for me,” replied his companion. “I hate moapy folks.”
After this slight interruption the two resumed the sport of their good spirits.