“Well, no,” he answered.  “You know, I’ve been over to Gosforth—­it’s a long ride—­I borrowed Jackson’s pony from Armboth; and what a wild country it is, to be sure!  It blew a gale on Stye Head.  It’s bleak enough up there on a day like this, mother.  I could scarce hold the horse.”

“I don’t wonder, Ralph; but see, here’s thy poddish—­thou must be fair clemm’d.”

“No, no; I called at Broom Hill.”

“How did you come in at the back, lad?  Do you not come up the lonnin?”

“I thought I’d go round by the low meadow and see all safe, and then the nearest way home was on the hill side, you know.”

Willy and Rotha glanced simultaneously at Ralph as he said this, but they found nothing in his face, voice, or manner to indicate that his words were intended to conceal the truth.

“But look how late it is!” he said as the clock struck twelve; “hadn’t we better go off to bed, all of us?”

“I think I must surely go off,” said Mrs. Ray, and with Rotha she left the kitchen.  Willy soon followed them, leaving Ralph to eat his supper alone.  Laddie, who had entered with his master, was lying by the smouldering fire, and after the one had finished eating, the other came in for his liberal share of the plain meal.  Then Ralph rose, and, lifting up his hat and staff, walked quietly to his brother’s room.  Willy was already in bed, but his candle was still burning.  Sitting on an old oak chest that stood near the door of the little room, Ralph said,—­

“I shall perhaps be off again before you are awake in the morning, but all will be done in good time.  The funeral will be on the day after to-morrow.  Robbie Anderson will see to everything.”

“Robbie Anderson?” said Willy in an accent of surprise.

“You know it’s the custom in the dale for a friend of the family to attend to these offices.”

“Yes; but Robbie Anderson of all men!”

“You may depend upon him,” said Ralph.

“This is the first time I’ve heard that he can depend upon himself, said Willy.

“True—­true—­but I’m satisfied about Robbie.  No, you need fear nothing.  Robbie’s a changed man, I think.”

“Changed he must be, Ralph, if you would commit to his care what could not be too well discharged by the most trustworthy friend of the family.”

“Yes, but Robbie will do as well as another—­better.  You know, Willy, I have an old weakness for a sheep that strays.  When I get it back I fancy, somehow, it’s the best of the flock.”

“May your straggler justify your odd fancy this time, brother!”

“Rotha will see to what has to be done at home,” said Ralph, rising and turning to go.

“Ralph,” said Willy, “do you know I—­” He faltered and began again, obviously changing the subject.  “Have you been in there to-night?” with a motion of the head towards the room wherein lay all that remained of their father.