Presently the girl came to the bedside again with a basin in her hand.
“Take a little of this, Mr. Garth,” she said. “Your mouth is parched.”
“How did you know that?” he muttered, lifting his eyes at last.
She made no reply, but held her cool hand to his burning forehead. He motioned to her to draw it away. She did so.
“It's not safe—it's not safe for you, girl,” he said in his thin whisper, his breath coming and going between every word.
She smiled, put back her hand and brushed the dank hair from his moist brow.
Mrs. Garth got up from her seat by the bedside and hobbled to the fire. There she sat on a low stool, and threw her apron over her head.
Again raising the blacksmith from his pillow, Rotha put a spoonful of barley-water to his withered lips. He was more docile than a child now, and let her have her will.
For a moment he looked at her with melancholy eyes, and then, shifting his gaze, he said,—
“You had troubles enow of your own, Rotha, without coming to share ours—mother's and mine.”