“Bless thee!” cried Mrs. Ray as her son came up to her. “Here is the mare back home, my lad, but where is thy father?”
“The roads are bad to-night, mother,” Ralph said, with a violent effort to control the emotion that was surging up to his throat.
“God help us, Ralph; you can't mean that!” said Willy, catching his brother's drift.
“Give me the lantern, boy,” said Ralph to a young cowherd that stood near. “Rotha, my lass, take mother into the house.” Then he stepped up to where his mother stood petrified with dismay, and kissed her tenderly. He had rarely done so before. The good dame understood him and wept. Rotha put her arms about the mother's neck and kissed her too, and helped her in.
Willy was unmanned. “You don't mean that you know that father—”
He could say no more. Ralph had raised the lantern to the level of the mare's creels to remove the strap that bound them, and the light had fallen on his face.
“Ralph, is he hurt—much hurt?”
“He is—dead!”
Willy fell back as one that had been dealt a blow.
“God help me! O God, help me!” he cried.