Rotha stood at her father’s side, motionless.

“There, he’s coming to.  Martha,” said Ralph, “hadn’t you better take Rotha to the kitchen fire?”

The two women left the room.

Sim’s eyes opened; there was a watery humor in them which was not tears.  The color came back to his cheeks, but with the return of consciousness his face grew thinner and more haggard.  He heaved a heavy sigh, and seemed to realize his surroundings.  With the only hand disengaged (Robbie held one of them) he clutched at Ralph’s belt.

“I’m better—­let me go,” he said in a hoarse voice, trying to rise.

“No!” said Ralph,—­“no!” and he gently pushed him back into his recumbent position.

“You had best let the snuffling waistrel go,” said one of the men in a surly tone.  “Maybe he never fainted at all.”

It was the blacksmith who had growled at the mention of Ralph’s name in Ralph’s absence.  They called him Joe Garth.

“Be silent, you loon,” answered Robbie Anderson, turning upon the last speaker.

Ralph seemed not to have heard him.

“Here,” he said, tossing Sim’s coat to Matthew, who had returned with a new pipe to his seat in the chimney corner, “dry that at the fire.”  The coat had been growing hard with the frost.

“This wants the batling stone ower it,” said the old weaver, spreading it out before him.

“See to this, schoolmaster,” said Ralph, throwing Sim’s cap into his lap.

Monsey jumped, with a scream, out of his seat as though stung by an adder.

Ralph looked at him for a moment with an expression of pity.

“I might have known you were timid at heart, schoolmaster.  Perhaps you’re gallant over a glass.”

There could be no doubt of little Monsey’s timidity.  All his jests had forsaken him.

Sim had seen the gesture that expressed horror at contact even with his clothes.  He was awake to every passing incident with a feverish alertness.

“Let me go,” he said again, with a look of supplicatory appeal.

Old Matthew got up and opened the door.

“Sista, there’s some betterment in the weather, now; it teem’t awhile ago.”

“What of that?” asked Ralph; but he understood the observation.

“For God’s sake let me go,” cried Sim in agony, looking first at one face and then at another.

“No,” said Ralph, and sat down beside him.  Robbie had gone back to his bench.

“Ye’ll want the bull-grips to keep him quiet,” said old Matthew to Ralph, with a sneer.

“And the ass’s barnicles to keep your tongue in your mouth,” added Ralph sternly.

“For fault of wise men fools sit on the bench, or we should hev none of this,” continued Matthew.  “I reckon some one that’s here is nigh ax’t oot by Auld Nick in the kirk of the nether world.”

“Then take care you’re not there yourself to give something at the bridewain.”