“Oh, but I must know!” cried the girl. And she stepped backward as though to touch for herself the thing that lay there.
“Nothing,” said Ralph, rising and taking her firmly by the hand that she had outstretched,—“nothing—a sack of corn has fallen from the wagon, nothing more.” He spoke in a hoarse whisper.
He drew her forward a few paces, but she stopped. The dog was standing where Ralph had knelt, and was howling wofully.
“Laddie, come here,” Ralph said; “Rotha, come away.”
“I could bear the truth, Ralph—I think I could,” she answered.
He put his arm about her, and drew her along without a word. She felt his powerful frame quiver and his strong voice die within him. She guessed the truth. She knew this man as few had known him, as none other could know him.
“Go back, Ralph,” she said; “I'll hurry on.” And still the dog howled behind them.
Ralph seemed not to hear her, but continued to walk by her side. Her heart sank, and she looked piteously into his face.
And now the noise reached them of hurrying footsteps in front. People were coming towards them from the house. Lanterns were approaching them. In another moment they were in the court. All was astir. The whole household seemed gathered there, and in the middle of the yard stood the mare Betsy, saddled but riderless, her empty wool-creels strapped to her sides.
“Thank Heaven, here is Ralph,” said Willy. He was standing bareheaded, with the bridle in his hand.