“May your straggler justify your odd fancy this time, brother!”
“Rotha will see to what has to be done at home,” said Ralph, rising and turning to go.
“Ralph,” said Willy, “do you know I—” He faltered and began again, obviously changing the subject. “Have you been in there to-night?” with a motion of the head towards the room wherein lay all that remained of their father.
“No; have you?”
“No; I dare not go. I would not if I could. I wish to remember him as he lived, and one, glance at his dead face would blot out the memory forever.”
Ralph could not understand this. There was no chord in his nature that responded to such feelings; but he said nothing in reply.
“Ralph,” continued Willy, “do you know I think Rotha—I almost thin—do you not think that Rotha rather cares for me?”
A perceptible tremor passed over Ralph's face. Then he said, with something like a smile, “Do you think she does, my lad?”
“I do—I almost do think so.”
Ralph had resumed his seat on the oak chest. The simple, faltering words just spoken had shaken him to the core. Hidden there—hidden even from himself—had lain inert for months a mighty passion such as only a great heart can know. In one moment he had seen it and known it for what it was. Yes, he had indeed loved this girl; he loved her still. When he spoke again his voice seemed to have died inwards; he appeared to be speaking out of his breast.