“Aiblins we may be quits yet, my chiel’.  A great stour has begoon, my birkie.  Your fire-flaucht e’e wull na fley me.  Your Cromwell’s gane, an’ all traitors shall tryste wi’ the hangman.”

It was clear that whatever the mystery pertaining to the Scotchman, Simeon Stagg seemed to possess some knowledge of it.  Not that he ever explained anything.  His anxiety to avoid all questions about his lodger was sufficiently obvious.  Yet that he had somehow obtained some hint of a dark side to Wilson’s character, every one felt satisfied.  No other person seemed to know with certainty what were Wilson’s means of livelihood.  The Scotchman was not employed by the farmers and shepherds around Wythburn, and he had neither land nor sheep of his own.  He would set out early and return late, usually walking in the direction of Gaskarth.  One day Wilson rose at daybreak, and putting a threshing-flail over his shoulder, said he would be away for a week.  That week ensuing was a quiet one for the inmates of the cottage at Fornside.

Sim’s daughter, Rotha, had about this time become a constant helper at Shoulthwaite Moss, where, indeed, she was treated with the cordiality proper to a member of the household.  Old Angus had but little sympathy to spare for the girl’s father, but he liked Rotha’s own cheerfulness, her winsomeness, and, not least, her usefulness.  She could milk and churn, and bake and brew.  This was the sort of young woman that Angus liked best.  “Rotha’s a right heartsome lassie,” he said, as he heard her in the dairy singing while she worked.  The dame of Shoulthwaite loved every one, apparently, but there were special corners in her heart for her favorites, and Rotha was one of them.

“Cannot that lass’s father earn aught without keeping yon sulking waistrel about him?” asked the old dalesman one day.

It was the first time he had spoken of Wilson since the threatened ducking.  Being told of Wilson’s violence to Rotha, he only said, “It’s an old saying, ‘A blate cat makes a proud mouse.’” Angus was never heard to speak of Wilson again.

Nature seemed to have meant Rotha for a blithe, bird-like soul, but there were darker threads woven into the woof of her natural brightness.  She was tall, slight of figure, with a little head of almost elfish beauty.  At milking, at churning, at baking, her voice could be heard, generally singing her favorite border song:—­

    “Gae tak this bonnie neb o’ mine,
       That pecks amang the corn,
     An’ gi’e’t to the Duke o’ Hamilton
       To be a touting horn.”

“Robin Redbreast has a blithe interpreter,” said Willy Ray, as he leaned for a moment against the open door of the dairy in passing out.  Rotha was there singing, while in a snow-white apron, and with arms bare above the elbows, she weighed the butter of the last churning into pats, and marked each pat with a rude old mark.  The girl dropped her head and blushed as Willy spoke.  Of late she had grown