“What is that?” she said, trembling with fear, and turning backwards.

“A drift of frozen sleet, no doubt,” Ralph said, kicking with his foot at the spot where Rotha slipped.

“No, no,” she answered, trembling now with some horrible apprehension.

Ralph had stepped back, and was leaning over something that lay across the road.  The dog was snuffling at it.

“What is it?” said Rotha nervously.

He did not answer.  He was on his knees beside it; his hands were on it.  There was a moment of agonizing suspense.

“What is it?” Rotha repeated.

Still there came no reply.  Ralph had risen, but he knelt again.  His breath was coming fast.  Rotha thought she could hear the beating of his heart.

“Oh, but I must know!” cried the girl.  And she stepped backward as though to touch for herself the thing that lay there.

“Nothing,” said Ralph, rising and taking her firmly by the hand that she had outstretched,—­“nothing—­a sack of corn has fallen from the wagon, nothing more.”  He spoke in a hoarse whisper.

He drew her forward a few paces, but she stopped.  The dog was standing where Ralph had knelt, and was howling wofully.

“Laddie, come here,” Ralph said; “Rotha, come away.”

“I could bear the truth, Ralph—­I think I could,” she answered.

He put his arm about her, and drew her along without a word.  She felt his powerful frame quiver and his strong voice die within him.  She guessed the truth.  She knew this man as few had known him, as none other could know him.

“Go back, Ralph,” she said; “I’ll hurry on.”  And still the dog howled behind them.

Ralph seemed not to hear her, but continued to walk by her side.  Her heart sank, and she looked piteously into his face.

And now the noise reached them of hurrying footsteps in front.  People were coming towards them from the house.  Lanterns were approaching them.  In another moment they were in the court.  All was astir.  The whole household seemed gathered there, and in the middle of the yard stood the mare Betsy, saddled but riderless, her empty wool-creels strapped to her sides.

“Thank Heaven, here is Ralph,” said Willy.  He was standing bareheaded, with the bridle in his hand.

“Bless thee!” cried Mrs. Ray as her son came up to her.  “Here is the mare back home, my lad, but where is thy father?”

“The roads are bad to-night, mother,” Ralph said, with a violent effort to control the emotion that was surging up to his throat.

“God help us, Ralph; you can’t mean that!” said Willy, catching his brother’s drift.

“Give me the lantern, boy,” said Ralph to a young cowherd that stood near.  “Rotha, my lass, take mother into the house.”  Then he stepped up to where his mother stood petrified with dismay, and kissed her tenderly.  He had rarely done so before.  The good dame understood him and wept.  Rotha put her arms about the mother’s neck and kissed her too, and helped her in.