d his
books there, but he had neither slept nor read that night. He wandered
about aimlessly, with the eyes of one walking in his sleep, breaking
out sometimes into a little hysterical scream, followed by a shudder,
and then a sudden disappearance. Death had come to him for the first
time, and in a fearful guise. Its visible presence appalled him. He
was as feeble as a child now. He was ready to lean on the first strong
human arm that offered; and though Rotha understood but vaguely the
troubles that beset his mind, her quick instinct found a sure way to
those that lay heavy at his heart. She comforted him with what good
words she could summon, and he came again and again to her with his
odd fancies and his recollections of the poor feeble philosophy which
he had gleaned from books. The look in the eyes of this simple girl
and the touch of her hand made death less fearsome than anything
besides. Willy seemed to lean on Rotha, and she on her part appeared
to grow stronger as she felt this.

Ralph had gone to bed much as usual the night before--after he had
borne upstairs what lay there. He was not seen again until morning,
and when he came down and stood for a moment over his mother's chair
as she sat gazing steadfastly into the fire, Rotha was stooping over
the pan, with the porridge thivle in her hand. She looked up into his
face, while his hand rested with a speechless sympathy on his mother's
arm, and she thought that, mingled with a softened sorrow, there was
something like hope there. The sadness of last night was neither in
his face nor in his voice. He was even quieter than usual, but he
appeared to have grown older in the few hours that had intervened.
Nevertheless, he went through his ordinary morning's work about the
homestead with the air of one whose mind was with him in what he did.
After breakfast he took his staff out of the corner and set out for
the hills, his dog beside him.

During the day, Rotha, with such neighborly help as it was the custom
to tender, did all the little offices incident to the situation. She
went in and out of the chamber of the dead, not without awe, but
without fear. She had only once before looked on death, or, if she had
seen it twice before this day, her first sight of it was long ago, in
that old time of which memory scarcely held a record, when she was
carried in her father's arms into a darkened room like this and held
for a moment over the white face that she knew to be