plums, and when he's tipsy his head's as soft as
poddish."

"It was a sad day for Robbie when his old mother died," said Rotha.

"And that was in one of his bouts" said Liza; "but I thought it had
sobered him forever. He loved the old soul, did Robbie, though he
didn't always do well by her. And now he's broken loose again."

It was clearly as much as Liza could do to control her tears, and,
being conscious of this, she forthwith made a determined effort to
simulate the sternest anger.

"I hate to see a man behave as if his head were as soft as poddish.
Not that _I_ care," she added, as if by an afterthought, and as though
to conceal the extent to which she felt compromised; "it's nothing to
_me_, that I can see. Only Wythburn's a hard-spoken place, and they're
sure to make a scandal of it."

"It's a pity about Robbie," said Rotha sympathetically.

Liza could scarcely control her tears. After she had dashed a drop or
two from her eyes, she said: "I cannot tell what it's all about. He's
always in a ponder, ponder, with his mouth open--except when he's
grindin' his teeth. I hate to see a man walking about like a haystack.
And Robbie used to have so much fun once on a time."

The tears were stealing up to Liza's eyes again.

"He can't forget what happened on the fell with the mare--that was a
fearful thing, Liza."

"Father says it's 'cause Robbie had the say over it all; but Joe Garth
says it comes of Robbie sticking himself up alongside of Ralph Ray.
What a genty one Robbie used to be!"

Liza's face began to brighten at some amusing memories.

"Do you mind Reuben Thwaite's merry night last winter at Aboon Beck?"

"I wasn't there, Liza," said Rotha.

"Robbie was actin' like a play-actor, just the same as he'd seen at
Carlisle. He was a captain, and he murdered a king, and then he was
made king himself, and the ghost came and sat in his chair at a great
feast he gave. Lord o' me! but it was queer. First he came on when he
was going to do the murder and let wit he saw a dagger floating before
him. He started and jumped same as our big tom cat when Mouser comes
round about him. You'd have died of laughing. Then he comes on for the
bank'et, and stamps his foot and tells the ghost to be off; and then
he trembles and dodders from head to foot like Mouser when he's had
his wash on Saturday nights. You'd have dropt, it was so queer."

Liza's enjoyment of the tragedy had not been exhausted with the
occasion, for n