"
"We must take him home," said Liza, who came hurrying from the house
with a blanket over her arm. "Here, cover him with this, Rotha can
spare it."
In a minute more Robbie's insensible form was wrapped round and round.
"Give him room to breathe," said Mattha; "I declare ye're playing at
pund-o'-mair-weight with the lad!" he added as Rotha came up with a
sheepskin and a shawl.
"The night is cold, and he has all but three miles to ride yet!" said
the girl.
"He lodges with 'Becca Rudd; let's be off," said Liza, clambering into
the cart by the step at the shaft. "Come up, father; quick!"
"What, Bobbie, Bobbie, but this is bad wark, bad wark," said Mattha,
when seated in the wagon. "Hod thy tail in the watter, lad, and
there's hope for thee yit."
With this figurative expression Mattha settled himself for the drive.
Rotha turned to Reuben Thwaite.
"At Carlisle, did you hear anything--meet anybody?" she asked.
"Baith," said Reuben, with a twinkle which was lost in the darkness.
"I mean from Wythburn. Did you meet anybody from--did you see Ralph or
my father?"
"Nowther.
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