Calling the dog, she went boldly into the house again, and once more into the dead man’s room.  She fixed the padlock, turned the key, drew it out of its wards, and put the bunch of keys in her pocket.  In two minutes more she was on the high road, walking back to Shoulthwaite.

There was something in her heart that told her that to-day’s event was big with issues.  And, truly, an angel of light had led her to that dark house.

The sun was gone.  A vapory mist was preceding the night.  The dead day lay clammy on her hands and cheeks.

When she reached the Fornside road, her eyes turned towards the smithy.  There it was, and a bright red glow from the fire, white at its hissing heart, lit up the air about it.  Rotha could hear the thick breathing of the bellows and the thin tinkle of the anvil.  Save for these all was silent.  What was the secret of the woman who lived there?  That it concerned her father, Ralph, herself, and all people dear to her, was as clear as day to Rotha.  The girl then resolved that, come what should or could, that secret should be torn from the woman’s heart.

The moon was struggling feebly through a ridge of cloud, lighting the sky at moments like a revolving lamp at sea.  On the road home Rotha passed two young people who were tripping along and laughing as they went.

“Good night, Rotha,” said the young dalesman.

“Good night, dear,” said his sweetheart.

Rotha returned the salutations.

“Fine lass that,” said the young fellow in a whisper.

“Do you think so?  She’s too moapy for me,” replied his companion.  “I hate moapy folks.”

After this slight interruption the two resumed the sport of their good spirits.

The moon had cleared the clouds now.

It was to be just such a night—­save for the frost and wind—­as that fateful one on which Ralph and Rotha walked together from the Red Lion.  How happy that night had seemed to her then to be—­happy, at least, until the end!  She had even sung under the moonlight.  But her songs had been truer than she knew—­terribly, horribly true.

     One lonely foot sounds on the keep,
     And that’s the warder’s tread.

Step by step Rotha retraced every incident of that night’s walk; every word of Ralph’s and every tone.

He had told her that her father was innocent, and that he knew it was so.

He had asked her if she did not love her father, and she had said, “Better than all the world.”

Had that been true, quite true? Rotha stopped and plucked at a bough in the fence.

When she had asked him the cause of his sadness, when she had hinted that perhaps he was keeping something behind which might yet take all the joy out of the glad news that he gave her—­what, then, had he said?  He had told her there was nothing to come that need mar her happiness or disturb her love.  Had that also been true, quite true?  No, no, no, neither had been true; but the falsehood had been hers.