“Done? done?” said Mrs. Garth; “why—­but we’ll not talk of that, my lass.  Ask him if ye’d know.  Or mayhap ye’ll ask yon shaffles, yer father.”

What could the woman mean?

“Tak my word for it; never set heart on yon Ralph:  he’s a doomed man.  It’s not for what he did at the wars that the redcoats trapes after him.  It’s worse nor that—­a lang way war’ nor that.”

“What is it, woman, that you would tell me?  Be fair and plain with me,” cried the girl; and the words were scarcely spoken when she despised herself for regarding the matter so seriously.

But Mrs. Garth leaned over to her with an ominous countenance, and whispered, “There’s murder in it, and that’s war’ nor war.  May war’ never come among us, say I!” Rotha put her hands over her face, and the next moment the woman shuffled on.

It was out at length.

Rotha staggered back to the house.  The farm people had taken supper, and were lounging in various attitudes of repose on the skemmel in the kitchen.

The girl’s duties were finished for the day, and she went up to her own room.  She had no light, and, without undressing, she threw herself on the bed.  But no rest came to her.  Hour after hour she tossed about, devising reason on reason for disbelieving the woman’s word.  But apprehension compelled conviction.

Mrs. Garth had forewarned them of the earlier danger, and she might be but too well informed concerning this later one.

Rotha rejected from the first all idea of Ralph being guilty of the crime in question.  She knew nothing of the facts, but her heart instantly repudiated the allegation.  Perhaps the crime was something that had occurred at the wars six years ago.  It could hardly be the same that still hung over their own Wythburn.  That last dread mystery was as mysterious as ever.  Ralph had said that her father was innocent of it, and she knew in her heart that he must be so.  But what was it that he had said?  “Do you know it was not father?” she had asked; and he had answered, “I know it was not.”  Did he mean that he himself—­

The air of her room felt stifling on that winter’s night.  Her brow was hot and throbbing, and her lips were parched and feverish.  Rising, she threw open the window, and waves of the cold mountain vapor rolled in upon her.

That was a lie which had tried a moment ago to steal into her mind—­a cruel, shameless lie.  Ralph was as innocent of murder as she was.  No purer soul ever lived on earth; God knew it was the truth.

Hark! what cry was that which was borne to her through the silent night?  Was it not a horse’s neigh?

Rotha shuddered, and leaned out of the window.  It was gone.  The reign of silence was unbroken.  Perhaps it had been a fancy.  Yet she thought it was the whinny of a horse she knew.

Rotha pulled back the sash and returned to her bed.  How long and heavy were the hours till morning!  Would the daylight never dawn? or was the blackness that rested in her own heart to lie forever over all the earth?