till the last, she did."

A louder burst of merriment than usual came from the distant room. The
fellows were singing a snatch together.

"Do you know, Rotha called her mother, Josie, too. I checked her, I
did; but my poor girl she said, said she, 'Never mind; the little one
has been hearkening to yourself.' You'd have cried, I think, if you'd
been with us the day she died. I was sitting at work, and she called
out that she felt faint; so I jumped up and held her in my arms and
sent our little Rotha for a neighbor. But it was too late. My poor
darling was gone in a minute, and when the wee thing came running back
to us, with red cheeks, she looked frightened, and cried, 'Josie!
Josie!' 'My poor Rotie, my poor little lost Rotie,' I said, 'our dear
Josie, she is in heaven!' Then the little one cried, 'No, no, no'; and
wept, and wept till--till--_I_ wept with her."

The door of the distant apartment must have been again thrown open,
for a robustious fellow could be heard to sing a stave of a drinking
song. The words came clearly in the silence that preceded a general
outburst of chorus:--

"Then to the Duke fill,
Fill up the glass;
The son of our martyr, beloved of the King."

"We buried her there," continued Sim; "ay, we buried her in the town;
and, with the crowds and the noise above her, there sleeps my brave
Josie, and I shall see her face no more."

Ralph rose up, and walked to the door by which he and Sim had entered
from the yard of the inn. He opened it and stood for a moment on the
threshold. The snow was falling in thick flakes. Already it covered
the ground and lay heavy on the roofs of the outhouses and on the
boughs of the leafless trees. A great calm was on the earth and in the
air.

* * * * *

Robbie speed on! Lose not an hour now, for an hour lost may be a
life's loss.

* * * * *

Ralph was turning back into the room, and bolting the outer door, when
the landlord entered hurriedly from the passage. He was excited.

"Is it not--captain, tell me--is it not Wy'bern--your father's
home--Wy'bern, on Bracken Mere?"

"It _was_ my father's home--why?"

"Then the bloodhounds _are_ on your trail!"

The perspiration was standing in beads on Brown's forehead.

"They talk of nothing to each other but of a game that's coming on at
Wy'bern, and what they'll do for some one that they never name. If
they'd but let wit who he i