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Updated: June 15, 2025
It was Sunday morning when little Liza Branthwaite ferreted Robbie out of the Red Lion, and it was no later than noon of the same day when Robbie began his journey. During the first few miles he could discover no trace of Sim.
This was Matthew Branthwaite, the wit and sage of Wythburn, once a weaver, but living now on the husbandings of earlier life. He was tall and slight, and somewhat bent with age. He was dressed in a long brown sack coat, belted at the waist, below which were pockets cut perpendicular at the side.
Yes, Darrell, yes, Lionel; this fair creature, whom Lady Montfort might well desire to adopt, is the daughter of Arthur Branthwaite, by marriage with the sister of Frank Vance, whose name I shrewdly suspect nations will prize, and whose works princes will hoard, when many a long genealogy, all blazoned in azure and or, will have left not a scrap for the moths."
"She's nobbut a laal bit quieter, that's all," said Matthew Branthwaite one morning when he turned in at Shoulthwaite. "The dame nivver were much of a talker not to say a talker, thoo knows; but mark me, she loves a crack all the same." Matthew acted pretty fully upon his own diagnosis of his old neighbor's seizure.
Branthwaite was a fragile little body, long past her best, with the crow's feet deeply indented about her eyes, which had the timid look of those of a rabbit, and were peculiarly appropriate to a good old creature who seemed to be constantly laboring against the idea that everything she did was done wrongly.
Robbie had put his arm on Monsey's shoulder and swung him round, and Ralph heard no more. But yester-night I prayed aloud In anguish and in agony. Coleridge. The night was far advanced, and yet Ralph had not returned to Shoulthwaite. It was three hours since Matthew Branthwaite had left the Moss. Mrs. Ray still sat before the turf fire and gazed into it in silence.
"He would be a mite if he were no bigger than the schoolmaster," put in that lady of majestic stature, Liza Branthwaite. Then Ralph sang in his deep baritone, "Fear no more the heat o' the sun." And the click of the spinning-wheels seemed to keep time to the slow measure of the fine old song. Laddie, the collie, was there. He lay at Ralph's feet with a solemn face.
"Nay," cried Matthew, following up his advantage, "ye may hear it agen, an ye will." Poor Mrs. Branthwaite seemed sorely distressed.
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.
She was in too much agony to weep. What had she done? What could she do? When she lifted her eyes, Liza Branthwaite was beside her, looking amazed and even frightened. "What has happened, lass?" said Liza fearfully. Then Rotha, having no other heart to trust with her haunting secret, confided it to this simple girl. "And what can I do?" she added in a last word.
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