“No, no, I’ll go; yes, that I will,” said Sim.  Rotha’s ardor of soul had conquered her father’s apprehension of failure.

“It’s only for a fortnight at most, that’s all,” added Sim.

“No more than that.  If Ralph is not found in a fortnight, make your way home.”

“But he shall be found, God helping me, he shall,” said Sim.

“He will help you, father,” said Rotha, her eyes glistening with tears.

“When should I start away?”

“To-morrow, at daybreak; that’s as I could wish you,” said Rotha.

“To-morrow—­Sunday?  Let it be to-night.  It will rain to-morrow, for it rained on Friday.  Let it be to-night, Rotha.”

“To-night, then,” said the girl, yielding to her father’s superstitious fears.  Thrusting her hand deep into a pocket, she added, “I have some money, not much, but it will find you lodgings for a fortnight.”

“Never mind the money, girl,” said Sim; “give me the horse-wallet on my back, with a bit of barley bread—­and that will do.”

“You must take the money as well.  These are cold, hard nights.  Promise me you’ll lodge at the inns on the road; remember to keep yourself strong, for it’s your only chance of finding Ralph—­promise me!”

“I give you my word, Rotha.”

“And now promise to say nothing of this to Willy,” said Rotha.

Sim did not reply, but a quick glance expressed more than words of the certainty of secrecy in that regard.

“When you’ve crossed the Raise, follow on to Kendal,” said Rotha, “and ask everywhere as you go.  A fortnight to-day the men return; remember that, and tell Ralph when you meet.”

“I fear he’ll give himself up, I do,” said Sim ruefully, and still half doubting his errand.

“That’s for him to decide, and he knows best,” answered Rotha.  “To-night, after supper, be you at the end of the lonnin, and I’ll meet you there.”

Then Sim went out of the house.

* * * * *

When Willy Ray left Rotha an hour ago it was with an overwhelming sense of disappointment.  Catching at an unfinished phrase, he had jumped to a false conclusion as to her motives.  He thought that he had mistaken her character, and painful as it had been to him some days ago to think that perhaps the girl had not loved him, the distress of that moment was as nothing to the agony of this one, when he began to suspect that perhaps he did not love her.  Or if, indeed, he loved her, how terrible it was to realize, as he thought he did but too vividly, that she was unworthy of his love!  Had she not wished to save the old home at the cost of his brother’s liberty?  True, Ralph was his brother, not hers, and perhaps it was too much to expect that she should feel his present situation as deeply as he did.  Yet he had thought her a rich, large soul, as unselfish as pure.  It was terrible to feel that this had been an idle dream, a mere mockery of the poor reality, and that his had been a vain fool’s paradise.