“And better faith, and a nobler heart,” he added feelingly as he turned his head away.
Garth was still asleep when she got back to the cottage. A feeble gleam of winter sunshine came languidly through the little window. It fell across the bed and lit up the blue eyelids and discolored lips of the troubled sleeper.
The fire had smouldered out. Only a charred bough and a damp clod of peat lay black among the gray ashes on the hearth.
As Rotha re-entered Mrs. Garth got up from the stool on which she had sat the long night through. There was a strange look on her face. During the heavy hours she had revolved within herself a dark problem which to her was unsolvable, and the puzzle was still printed on her face. Drawing the girl aside, she said in a grating whisper,—
“Tell me, do ye think it's reet what the lad says?”
“About Ralph and father?” asked Rotha.
“Tush! about hissel'. Do ye think he'll die?”
Rotha dropped her head.
“Tell me: do ye think so?”
Rotha was still silent. Mrs. Garth looked searchingly into her face, and in answer to the unuttered reply, she whispered vehemently,—