Sim was not yet so far recovered from his exhaustion but that the exertion of riding—­at any time a serious undertaking to him—­was quick in producing symptoms of collapse.  But he held on to his purpose of accompanying Ralph on his northward journey with a tenacity which was unshaken either by his companion’s glances of solicitude or yet by the broad mouthed merriment of the rustics, who obviously found it amusing to watch the contortions of an ill-graced, weak, and spiritless rider, and to fire off at him as he passed the sallies of an elephantine humor.

When the pair started away from Kendal, Sim had clearly no thought but that their destination was to be Wythburn.  It was therefore with some surprise and no little concern that he observed that Ralph took the road to the right which led to Penrith and the northeast, when they arrived at that angle of the highway outside the town where two turnpikes met, and one went off to Wythburn and the Northwest.

“I should have reckoned that the nighest way home was through Staveley,” Sim said with hesitation.

“We can turn to the left at Mardale,” said Ralph, and pushed on without further explanation.  “Do you say that mother has never once spoken?” he asked, drawing up at one moment to give Sim a little breathing space.

“Never once, Ralph—­mute as the grave, she is—­poor body.”

“And Rotha—­Rotha—­”

“Yes, the lass is with her, she is.”

“God bless her in this world and the next!”

Then the two pushed on again, with a silence between them that was more touching than speech.  They rode long and fast this spell, and when they drew up once more, Ralph turned in his saddle and saw that the ruins that stood at the top of the Kendal Scar were already far behind them.

“It’s a right good thing that you’ve given up your solitary life on the fells, Sim.  It wilt cheer me a deal, old friend, to think you’ll always live with the folks at Shoulthwaite.”  Ralph spoke as if he himself had never to return.  Sim felt this before Ralph had realized the implication of his words.

“It’s hard for a hermit to be a good man,” continued Ralph; “he begins with being miserable and ends with being selfish and superstitious, and perhaps mad.  Have you never marked it?”

“Maybe so, Ralph; maybe so.  It’s like it’s because the world’s bitter cruel that so many are buryin’ theirsels afore they’re dead.”

“Then it’s because they expect too much of the world,” said Ralph.  “We should take the world on easier terms.  Fallible humanity must have its weaknesses and poor human life its disasters, and where these are mighty and inevitable, what folly is greater than to fly from them or to truckle to them, to make terms with them?  Our duty is simply to endure them, to endure them—­that’s it, old friend.”

There was no answer that Sim could make to this.  Ralph was speaking to the companion who rode by his side; but in fact he seemed to be addressing himself.