“And that was in one of his bouts” said Liza; “but I thought it had sobered him forever.  He loved the old soul, did Robbie, though he didn’t always do well by her.  And now he’s broken loose again.”

It was clearly as much as Liza could do to control her tears, and, being conscious of this, she forthwith made a determined effort to simulate the sternest anger.

“I hate to see a man behave as if his head were as soft as poddish.  Not that I care,” she added, as if by an afterthought, and as though to conceal the extent to which she felt compromised; “it’s nothing to me, that I can see.  Only Wythburn’s a hard-spoken place, and they’re sure to make a scandal of it.”

“It’s a pity about Robbie,” said Rotha sympathetically.

Liza could scarcely control her tears.  After she had dashed a drop or two from her eyes, she said:  “I cannot tell what it’s all about.  He’s always in a ponder, ponder, with his mouth open—­except when he’s grindin’ his teeth.  I hate to see a man walking about like a haystack.  And Robbie used to have so much fun once on a time.”

The tears were stealing up to Liza’s eyes again.

“He can’t forget what happened on the fell with the mare—­that was a fearful thing, Liza.”

“Father says it’s ’cause Robbie had the say over it all; but Joe Garth says it comes of Robbie sticking himself up alongside of Ralph Ray.  What a genty one Robbie used to be!”

Liza’s face began to brighten at some amusing memories.

“Do you mind Reuben Thwaite’s merry night last winter at Aboon Beck?”

“I wasn’t there, Liza,” said Rotha.

“Robbie was actin’ like a play-actor, just the same as he’d seen at Carlisle.  He was a captain, and he murdered a king, and then he was made king himself, and the ghost came and sat in his chair at a great feast he gave.  Lord o’ me! but it was queer.  First he came on when he was going to do the murder and let wit he saw a dagger floating before him.  He started and jumped same as our big tom cat when Mouser comes round about him.  You’d have died of laughing.  Then he comes on for the bank’et, and stamps his foot and tells the ghost to be off; and then he trembles and dodders from head to foot like Mouser when he’s had his wash on Saturday nights.  You’d have dropt, it was so queer.”

Liza’s enjoyment of the tragedy had not been exhausted with the occasion, for now she laughed at the humors of her own narrative.

“But those days are gone,” she continued.  “I met Robbie last night, and I says, says I, ’Have you pawned your dancing shoes, Robbie, as you’re so glum?’ And that’s what he is, save when he’s tipsy, and then what do ye think the maizelt creature does?”

“What?” said Rotha.