Intelligence of the disaster that had fallen on the household at Shoulthwaite Moss was not long in circulating through Wythburn. One after another, the shepherds and their wives called in, and were taken to the silent room upstairs. Some offered such rude comfort as their sympathetic hearts but not too fecund intellects could devise, and as often as not it was sorry comfort enough. Some stood all but speechless, only gasping out at intervals, “Deary me.” Others, again, seemed afflicted with what old Matthew Branthwaite called “doddering” and a fit of the “gapes.”
It was towards nightfall when Matthew himself came to Shoulthwaite. “I'm the dame's auldest neighbor,” he had said at the Red Lion that afternoon, when the event of the night previous had been discussed. “It's nobbut reet 'at I should gang alang to her this awesome day. She'll be glad of the neighborhood of an auld friend's crack.” They were at their evening meal of sweet broth when Matthew's knock came to the door, followed, without much interval, by his somewhat gaunt figure on the threshold.
“Come your ways in,” said Mrs. Ray. “And how fend you, Mattha?”
“For mysel', I's gayly. Are ye middlin' weel?” the old man said.
“I'm a lang way better, but I'm going yon way too. It's far away the bainer way for me now.” And Mrs. Ray put her apron to her eyes.
“Ye'll na boune yit, Mary,” said Matthew. “Ye'll na boune yon way for mony a lang year yit. So dunnet ye beurt, Mary.”
Mattha's blubbering tones somewhat discredited his stoical advice.
Rotha had taken down a cup, and put the old man to sit between herself and Willy, facing Mrs. Ray.
“I met Ralph in the morning part,” said Matthew; “he telt me all the ins and outs aboot it. I reckon he were going to the kirk garth aboot the berryin'.”
Mrs. Ray raised her apron to her eyes again. Willy got up and left the room. He at least was tortured by this kind of comfort.