more substantial than sympathy. And now, when Sim had the promise of a
strong friend's shoulder to lean on, he was unmanned, and wept. Ralph
was not unmoved as he stood by the forlorn little man, and clasped his
hands in his own and felt the warm tears fall over them.

As the young dalesman was leaving the cottage that morning, he
encountered in the porch the subject of the conversation, who was
entering in. Taking him firmly but quietly by the shoulder, he led him
back a few paces. Sim had leapt up from his bench, and was peering
eagerly through the window. But Ralph did no violence to his lodger.
He was saying something with marked emphasis, but the words escaped
the tailor's ears. Wilson was answering nothing. Loosing his hold of
him, Ralph walked quietly away. Wilson entered the cottage with a
livid face, and murmuring, as though to himself,--

"Aiblins we may be quits yet, my chiel'. A great stour has begoon, my
birkie. Your fire-flaucht e'e wull na fley me. Your Cromwell's gane,
an' all traitors shall tryste wi' the hangman."

It was clear that whatever the mystery pertaining to the Scotchman,
Simeon Stagg seemed to possess some knowledge of it. Not that he ever
explained anything. His anxiety to avoid all questions about his
lodger was sufficiently obvious. Yet that he had somehow obtained some
hint of a dark side to Wilson's character, every one felt satisfied.
No other person seemed to know with certainty what were Wilson's means
of livelihood. The Scotchman was not employed by the farmers and
shepherds around Wythburn, and he had neither land nor sheep of his
own. He would set out early and return late, usually walking in the
direction of Gaskarth. One day Wilson rose at daybreak, and putting a
threshing-flail over his shoulder, said he would be away for a week.