dusta mean?" said Mattha from his seat in the cart.

"Nay, but have mercy on me, have mercy on me," cried 'Becca
beseechingly.

"Weel, weel," said Mattha, "they do say as theer's no fools like auld
fools. Why, the lad's ram'lin'. Canst hear?--ram'lin'. Wadst hev us
keck him intil the dike to die like ony dog?"

"Take him away, take him away," cried 'Becca, retiring inwards, her
importunity becoming every moment louder and more vehement.

"I reckon ye wad be a better stepmother to yon brocken-backt bitch of
yours an it had the mange?" said Mattha.

"Nay, but the plague--the plague. Ye've heard what the new preachers
are telling about the plague. Robbie's got it, Robbie's got the
plague; I'm sure of it, sure."

'Becca set down the candle to wring her hands.

"So thoo's sure of it, ista?" said Mattha. "Weel, I'll tell thee what
_I_'s sure on, and that is that thoo art yan o' them folks as waddant
part with the reek off their kail. Ye'r nobbut an auld blatherskite,
'Becca, as preaches mair charity in a day ner ye'r ready to stand by
in a twelvemonth. Come, Reuben, whip up yer dobbin. Let's away to my
own house. I'd hev to be as poor as a kirk louse afore I'd turn my
back on a motherless lad as is nigh to death's door."

"Don't say that, father," whimpered Liza.

"Nay, Mattha, nay, man," cried 'Becca, "it's nought of that. It's my
life that's in danger."

"Shaf! that 'at is nowt is nivver in danger. Whear's the plague as wad
think it worth while to bodder wid a skinflint like thee? Good neet,
'Becca, good neet, and 'od white te, lass, God requite thee!"

So they drove to Matthew Branthwaite's cottage, and installed the sick
man in the disused workroom, where the loom had stood silent for
nearly ten years.

A rough shakedown was improvised, a log fire was speedily kindled, and
in half an hour Mrs. Branthwaite was sitting at Robbie's bedside
bathing his hot forehead with cloths damped in vinegar. The little
woman--timid and nervous in quieter times--was beginning to show some
mettle now.

"Robbie has the fever, the brain fever," she said. She was right. The
old wife's diagnosis was as swift as thought. Next day they sent for
the doctor from Gaskarth. He came; looked wise and solemn; asked three
questions in six syllables apiece, and paused between them. Then he
felt the sick man's pulse. He might almost have heard the tick of it.
Louder was the noise of the beating heart. Still not a word. In the
dread stilln