How hollow the laugh sounded on his own ears! It was not what his father would have called heartsome. What was this sadness that was stealing over him and stiffening every sense? Had he yet realized it in all its fulness? Ralph shook himself and struck his hand on his breast, as though driving out the cold. He could not drive out the foreboding that had taken a seat there since Sim looked last in his eyes and cried, "Let me go."

Laddie frisked about them, and barked back at the echo of his own voice, that resounded through the clear air from the hollow places in the hills. They had not far to go now. The light of the kitchen window at Shoulthwaite would be seen from the turn of the road. Only through yonder belt of trees that overhung the "lonnin," and they would be in the court of Angus Ray's homestead.

"Ralph," said Rotha--she had walked in silence for some little time--"all the sorrow of my life seems gone. You have driven it all away." Her tremulous voice belied the light laugh that followed.

He looked down at her tear-dimmed eyes. Was her great sorrow indeed gone? Had he driven it away from her? If so, was it not all, and more, being gathered up into his own heart instead? Was it not so?

"You have borne it bravely, Rotha--very bravely," he answered. "Do you think, now, that I could have borne it as you have done?"

There was a tremor in his tone and a tenderness of expression in his face that Rotha had never before seen there.

"Bear it as I have done?" she repeated. "There is nothing you could not bear." And her radiant face was lit up in that white moonlight with a perfect sunshine of beauty.

"I don't know, Rotha, my girl," he answered falteringly; "I don't know--yet." The last words were spoken with his head dropped on to his breast.

Rotha stepped in front of him, and, putting her hand on his shoulder, stopped him and looked searchingly in his face.

"What is this sadness, Ralph? Is there something you have not told me--something behind, which, when it comes, will take the joy out of this glad news you give me?"

"I could not be so cruel as that, Rotha; do you think I could?"

A smile was playing upon his features as he smoothed her hair over her forehead and drew forward the loose hood that had fallen from it.

"And there is nothing to come after--nothing?"

"Nothing that need mar your happiness, my girl, or disturb your love.

You love your father, do you not?"

"Better than all the world!" Rotha answered impulsively. "Poor father!"

"Better than all the world," echoed Ralph vacantly, and with something like a sigh. Her impetuous words seemed to touch him deeply, and he repeated them once more, but they died away on his lips. "Better than all the--" Then they walked on.

They had almost reached the belt of trees that overhung the road.

"Ralph," said Rotha, pausing, "may I--kiss you?"

He stooped and kissed her on the forehead. Then the weight about his heart seemed heavier than before. By that kiss he felt that between him and the girl at his side there was a chasm that might never be bridged. Had he loved her? He hardly knew; he had never put it to himself so. Did she not love him? He could not doubt it. And her kiss!

yes, it was the kiss of love; but _what_ love? The frank, upturned face answered him but too well.

They were within the shadow of the trees now, and could see the lights at Shoulthwaite. In two minutes more their journey would be done.

"Take my hand, Rotha; you might slip on the frosty road in darkness like this."

The words were scarcely spoken, when Rotha gave a little cry and stumbled. "In an instant Ralph's arm was about her, and she had regained her feet.

"What is that?" she said, trembling with fear, and turning backwards.

"A drift of frozen sleet, no doubt," Ralph said, kicking with his foot at the spot where Rotha slipped.

"No, no," she answered, trembling now with some horrible apprehension.

Ralph had stepped back, and was leaning over something that lay across the road. The dog was snuffling at it.

"What is it?" said Rotha nervously.

He did not answer. He was on his knees beside it; his hands were on it. There was a moment of agonizing suspense.

"What is it?" Rotha repeated.

Still there came no reply. Ralph had risen, but he knelt again. His breath was coming fast. Rotha thought she could hear the beating of his heart.

"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 hoa.r.s.e 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 w.i.l.l.y. He was standing bareheaded, with the bridle in his hand.

"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.

"G.o.d help us, Ralph; you can't mean that!" said w.i.l.l.y, catching his brother's drift.

"Give me the lantern, boy," said Ralph to a young cowherd that stood near. "Rotha, my la.s.s, 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.

w.i.l.l.y 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!"

w.i.l.l.y fell back as one that had been dealt a blow.