“It wad look better of folk if they’d wait till they’re axt,” muttered Mrs. Garth, with downcast eyes.

Rotha unpinned the shawls that had wrapped her from the cold, and threw them over a chair.  She stirred the fire and made it burn brightly; there was no other light in the room.  The counterpane, which had been dragged away in the restlessness of the sufferer, she spread afresh.  Reaching over the bed, she raised the sick man’s head tenderly on her arm while she beat out his pillow.  Never once did he lift his eyes to hers.

Mrs. Garth still rocked herself in her seat.  “Folks should wait till they’re wanted,” she mumbled again; but the words broke down into a stifled sob.

Rotha lit a candle that stood at hand, went to the cupboard in the corner of the adjoining kitchen, and took out a jar of barley; then to the hearth and took up a saucepan.  In two minutes she was boiling something on the fire.

Mrs. Garth was following every movement with watchful eyes.

Presently the girl came to the bedside again with a basin in her hand.

“Take a little of this, Mr. Garth,” she said.  “Your mouth is parched.”

“How did you know that?” he muttered, lifting his eyes at last.

She made no reply, but held her cool hand to his burning forehead.  He motioned to her to draw it away.  She did so.

“It’s not safe—­it’s not safe for you, girl,” he said in his thin whisper, his breath coming and going between every word.

She smiled, put back her hand and brushed the dank hair from his moist brow.

Mrs. Garth got up from her seat by the bedside and hobbled to the fire.  There she sat on a low stool, and threw her apron over her head.

Again raising the blacksmith from his pillow, Rotha put a spoonful of barley-water to his withered lips.  He was more docile than a child now, and let her have her will.

For a moment he looked at her with melancholy eyes, and then, shifting his gaze, he said,—­

“You had troubles enow of your own, Rotha, without coming to share ours—­mother’s and mine.”

“Yes,” she answered, and a shadow crossed the cheerful face.

“Will they banish him?” he said with quick-coming breath.  “Mother says so; will they banish him from the country?”

“Yes, perhaps; but it will be to another and a better country,” said Rotha, and dropped her head.

Garth glanced inquiringly into her face.  His mother shifted on her stool.

“How, how?” he said, nervously clutching at the bedclothes.

“Why do you bother him, girl?” said Mrs. Garth, turning about.  “Rest thee, my lad, rest thee still.”

“Mother,” said Garth, drawing back his head, but never shifting the determination of his gaze from Rotha’s face, “what does she mean?”

“Haud thy tongue, Joey.”

“What does she mean, mother?”

“Whisht!  Never heed folks that meddle afore they’re axt.”