The tailor started at the name.

"I don't know--I don't know at all," he answered, as though eager to
assert the truth of a statement never called into dispute.

"Does he intend to come back to Fornside to-night, Sim?"

"So he said."

"What, think you, is his work at Gaskarth?"

"I don't know--I know nothing--at least--no, nothing."

Ralph was sure now. Sim was too eager to disclaim all knowledge of his
lodger's doings. He would not recognize the connection between the
former and present subjects of conversation.

The night had gathered in, and the room was dark except for the
glimmer of a little fire on the open hearth. The young dalesman looked
long into it: his breast heaved with emotion, and for the first time
in his manhood big tears stood in his eyes. It must be so; it must be
that this poor forlorn creature, who had passed through sufferings of
his own, and borne them, was now shattered and undone at the prospect
of disaster to his friend. Did he know more than he had said? It was
vain to ask. Would he--do anything? Ralph glanced at the little man:
barrow-backed he was, as he had himself said. No, the idea seemed
monstrous. The young man rose to go; he could not speak, but he took
Sim's hand in his and held it. Then he stooped and kissed him on the
cheek.