She was standing so one morning a fortnight or more after Ralph’s departure from Wythburn, when Willy came into the kitchen, and, before she was conscious of his presence, sat in the seat of the little alcove within which she stood.

He took the hand that lay disengaged by her side and told her in a word or two of his love.  He had loved her long in silence.  He had loved her before she became the blessing she now was to him and to his; to-day he loved her more than ever before.

It was a simple story, and it came with the accent of sincerity in every word.

He thought perhaps she loved him in return—­he had sometimes thought so—­was he wrong?

There was a pause between them.  Regaining some momentary composure, the girl turned her eyes once more aside and looked through the neuk window towards the south.  She felt the color mounting to her cheeks, and knew that the young man had risen to his feet beside her.  He, on his part, saw only the fair face before him, and felt only the little hand that lay passively in his own.

“It’s a sad sort of home to bring you to.  It would be idle to ask if you have been happy here—­it would be a mockery; but—­but—­”

“I have been happy; that is, happy to do as Ralph wished me.”

“And as I wished?”

“As you wished too, Willy.”

“You’ve been a blessing to us, Rotha.  I sometimes think, though, that it was hardly fair to bring you into the middle of this trouble.”

“He did it for the best,” said Rotha.

“Who?”

There was a little start of recovering consciousness.

“Ralph,” she answered, and dropped her head.

“True—­he did it for the best,” repeated Willy, and relapsed into silence.

“Besides, I had no home then, you know.”

How steadfastly the girl’s eyes were fixed oh the distant south!

“You had your father’s home, Rotha.”

“Ah, no!  When it ceased to be poor father’s home, how could it be mine any longer?  No, I was homeless.”

There was another pause.

“Then let me ask you to make this house your home forever.  Can you not do so?”

“I think so—­I can scarcely tell—­he said it might be best—­”

Willy let loose her hand.  Had he dreamed?  Was it a wild hallucination—­the bright gleam of happiness that had penetrated the darkness that lay about him at every step?

How yearningly the girl’s eyes still inclined to yonder distant south.

“Let us say no more about it now, Rotha,” he said huskily.  “If you wish it, we’ll talk again on this matter—­that is, I say, if you wish it; if not, no matter.”

The young man was turning away.  Without moving the fixed determination of her gaze, Rotha said quietly,—­

“Willy, I think perhaps I do love you—­perhaps—­I don’t know.  I remember he said that our hearts lay open before each other—­”