that had occurred at the wars six years ago. It could hardly be the
same that still hung over their own Wythburn. That last dread mystery
was as mysterious as ever. Ralph had said that her father was innocent
of it, and she knew in her heart that he must be so. But what was it
that he had said? "Do you _know_ it was not father?" she had asked;
and he had answered, "I _know_ it was not." Did he mean that he
himself--

The air of her room felt stifling on that winter's night. Her brow was
hot and throbbing, and her lips were parched and feverish. Rising, she
threw open the window, and waves of the cold mountain vapor rolled in
upon her.

That was a lie which had tried a moment ago to steal into her mind--a
cruel, shameless lie. Ralph was as innocent of murder as she was. No
purer soul ever lived on earth; God knew it was the truth.

Hark! what cry was that which was borne to her through the silent
night? Was it not a horse's neigh?

Rotha shuddered, and leaned out of the window. It was gone. The reign
of silence was unbroken. Perhaps it had been a fancy. Yet she thought
it was the whinny of a horse she knew.

Rotha pulled back the sash and returned to her bed. How long and heavy
were the hours till morning! Would the daylight never dawn? or was the
blackness that rested in her own heart to lie forever over all the
earth?

But it came at last--the fair and gracious morning of another day came