But then, again, perhaps Ralph had not foreseen that his mother might live for years in her present state.  No doubt he thought her near to death.  He could not have intended that she should live long in his brother’s house.

Yet he had so intended.  “He will ask you to be his wife, Rotha,” Ralph had said, “but he can’t do so yet.”

This brought her memory back to the earlier events of the morning.  Willy Ray had already asked her to become his wife.  And what had she done on her part?  Had she not seemed to say No?

Willy was far above her.  It was true enough that she was a poor homeless girl, without lands, without anything but the hands she worked with.  Willy was now a statesman, and he was something of a scholar too.  Yes, he was in every way far above her.  Were there not others who might love him?  Yet Ralph had seemed to wish her to become his brother’s wife, and what Ralph had said would be best, must of course be so.

She could not bring herself to leave Shoulthwaite—­that was clear enough to her bewildered sense.  Nor could she remain on the present terms of relation—­that, also, was but too clear.  If Ralph were at home, how different everything would be!  He would lead her with a word out of this distressing maze.

When Willy Ray parted from Rotha after he had told her of his love, he felt that the sunshine had gone out of his life forever.  He had been living for weeks and months in a paradise that was not his own.  Why he had loved this girl he could hardly say.  She was—­every one knew it—­the daughter of a poor tailor, and he was the poorest and meanest creature in the country round about.

The young man could not help telling himself that he might have looked to marry the daughter of the largest statesman in a radius of miles.

But then, the girl herself was a noble creature—­none could question it.  Rude, perhaps, in some ways, without other learning than the hard usage of life had given her; yet she was a fine soul, as deep as the tarn on the mountain-top, and as pure and clear.

And he had fancied she loved him.  No disaster had quite overshadowed the bright hope of that surmise.  Yet had she not loved Ralph instead?  Perhaps the girl herself did not realize that in reality the love of his brother had taken hold of her.  Did Ralph himself love the girl?  That could not be, or he should have guessed the truth the night they spoke together.  Still, it might be that Ralph loved her after all.

By the following morning Rotha had decided that her duty at this crisis lay one way only, and that way she must take.  Ralph had said it would be well for her to become Willy’s wife, and she had promised him never to leave the Moss while his mother lived.  She would do as he had said.

Willy had asked her for a sign, and she must give hint, one—­a sign that she was willing to say “Yes” if he spoke again to-day as he had spoken yesterday.