And when the night bird was gone she left a silence
deeper than before.
The citizens, lads and lasses, old men and dames, got into the boat.
Robbie Anderson and three other young fellows took the oars.
"We'll row ourselves up in a twinkling," said Liza, as Ralph and Willy
pushed the keel off the shingle.
"Hark ye the lass!" cried Mattha. "We hounds slew the hare, quo' the
terrier to the cur."
The sage has fired off the last rustic proverb that we shall ever hear
from his garrulous old lips.
When they were fairly afloat, and rowing hard up the stream, the girls
started a song.
The three who stood together at the Water's Head listened long to the
dying voices.
A step on the path broke their trance. It was a lone woman, bent and
feeble. She went by them without a word.
The brothers exchanged a look.
"Poor Joe," said Rotha, almost in a whisper.
But the girl's cup of joy could bear this memory. She knew her love at
last.
Willy stepped between Rotha and Ralph. He was deeply moved. He was
about to yield up the dream of his life.
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