“That was a noble purpose, but it was wrong,” thought Rotha, and it never occurred to her to make terms with a mistake.  “It was a noble purpose,” she thought again; and when the memory of her own personal grief crept up once more, she suppressed it with the reflection, “Willy was sore tried, poor lad.”

Who was to tell Ralph, and how was he to be told?  Who knew where he had gone, or, knowing this, could go in search of him?  Would that she herself had been born a man; then she would have travelled the kingdom over, but she would have found him.  She was only a woman, however, and her duty lay here—­here in the little circle with Ralph’s mother, and in his house and his brother’s.  Who could go in search of Ralph?

At this moment of doubt, Sim walked into the courtyard of the homestead.  He had not been seen since the day of the parson’s visit, but, without giving sign of any consciousness that he had been away, he now took up a spade and began to remove a drift of sleet that had fallen during the previous night.  Rotha’s eyes brightened, and she hastened to the door and hailed him.

“Father,” she said, when Sim had followed her into the house, “you made a great journey for Ralph awhile ago; could you make another now?”

“What has happened?  Do they rype the country with yon warrant still?” asked Sim.

“Worse than that,” said Rotha.  “If that were all, we could leave Ralph to settle with them; they would never serve their warrant, never.”

“Worse; what’s worse, lass?” said Sim, changing color.

“Outlawry,” said Rotha.

“What’s that, girl?—­what’s outlawry?—­nothing to do with—­with—­with Wilson, has it?” said Sim, speaking beneath his breath, and in quick and nervous accents.

“No, no:  not that.  It means that unless Ralph is delivered up within fourteen days this place will be taken by the bailiffs of the Sheriff.”

“And what of that?” said Sim.  “Let them take it—­better let them have it than Ralph fall into their hands.”

“Father, poor Mistress Ray would be turned into the roads—­they’d have no pity, none.”

“I’ll uphod thee that’s true,” said Sim.  “It staggers me.”

“We must find Ralph, and at once too,” said Rotha.

“Find him?  He’s gone, but Heaven knows where.”

“Father, if I were a man, I’d find him, God knows I would.”

“It’s nigh about the worst as could have happened, it is,” said Sim.

“The worst will be to come if we do not find him.”

“But how? where?  Following him will be the rule o’ thumb,” said Sim.

“You said he took the road over the Raise,” said Rotha.  “He’ll not go far, depend upon that.  The horse has not been caught.  Ralph is among the mountains yet, take my word for it, father.”

“It’s bad weather to trapes the fells, Rotha.  The ground is all slush and sladderment.”

“So it is, so it is; and you’re grown weak, father.  I’ll go myself.  Liza Branthwaite will come here and fill my place.”