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Updated: May 25, 2025
This dreaded place was called the "Mugger's Lonnin" by the country-folk, owing to its being a camping-ground for the gipsies, and from end to end it was prolific of bramble-berries and other wild fruit. When the children went during the summer months to gather these they were always accompanied by a few grown-up people, as it was believed that many terrible tragedies had happened there.
And now, by the power of love, this girl with the face of an angel in its sweetness and simplicity this girl, usually as tremulous as a linnet was about to do what a callous man might shrink from. She followed the pack-horse road beyond the lonnin that turned up to Shoulthwaite, and stopped at the gate of the cottage that stood by the smithy near the bridge.
But now there was the rattle of a wagon on the lonnin. A moment later the door was thrown open, and Liza Branthwaite stood in the porch with Reuben Thwaite behind her. "Here's Robbie Anderson back home in Reuben's cart," said Liza, catching her breath. "Fetch him in," said Matthew. "Is he grown shy o' t'yance?" "That's mair nor my share, Mattha," said Reuben.
She felt that after a step or two he had stood still in front of her. She knew that her face was crimson. Her eyes, too, were growing dim. "Rotha, my darling!" She heard no more. The spinning-wheel had been pushed hastily aside. She was on her feet, and Willy's arms were about her. As the parson left Shoulthwaite that morning he encountered Joe Garth at the turning of the lonnin.
The "Mugger's Lonnin," all blazing with red and yellow flowers and long silvery grass growing wild, and covering the mysteries that lie beneath, is still there. The superstitions regarding its history still exist. The sandhills, capped with the rustling, silky bents, looking down into the bay, are still there.
Then they drove for hours in silence. It was dark when they passed through Threlkeld, and turned into the Vale of Wanthwaite on their near approach to Wythburn. "I scarce know rightly where Robbie bides, now old Martha's dead," thought Reuben; "I'll just slip up the lonnin to Shoulth'et and ask." And to be wroth with one we love Doth work like madness in the brain. Coleridge.
The light of the kitchen window at Shoulthwaite would be seen from the turn of the road. Only through yonder belt of trees that overhung the "lonnin," and they would be in the court of Angus Ray's homestead. "Ralph," said Rotha she had walked in silence for some little time "all the sorrow of my life seems gone. You have driven it all away."
"I fear he'll give himself up, I do," said Sim ruefully, and still half doubting his errand. "That's for him to decide, and he knows best," answered Rotha. "To-night, after supper, be you at the end of the lonnin, and I'll meet you there." Then Sim went out of the house. When Willy Ray left Rotha an hour ago it was with an overwhelming sense of disappointment.
When the full flood of daylight streamed into the little room, Garth had sunk into a deep sleep. As the clock struck eight Rotha drew her shawls about her shoulders and hurried up the road. At the turning of the lonnin to Shoulthwaite she met Willy Ray. "I was coming to meet you," he said, approaching.
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