The young dalesman looked into the mouth of his pewter and muttered, as if to himself,-- "Because there was no evidence to convict the poor soul, suspicion, that is worse than conviction, must so fix upon him that he's afraid to sleep his nights in his bed at home, but must go where never a braggart loon of Wythburn dare follow him." "Aye, lad," said the old man, with a wink of profound import, "foxes hev holes." The sally was followed by a general laugh.
Not noticing it, Ralph said,-- "A hole, indeed! a cleft in the bare rock, open to nigh every wind, deluged by every rain, desolate, unsheltered by bush or bough--a hole no fox would house in." Ralph was not unmoved, but the sage in the chimney corner caught little of the contagion of his emotion.

Taking his pipe out of his mouth, and with the shank of it marking time to the doggerel, he said,-- "Wheariver there's screes There's mair stones nor trees." The further sally provoked a louder laugh.

Just then another gust came down the chimney and sent a wave of mingled heat and cold through the room.

The windows rattled louder with the wind and crackled sharper with the pelting sleet.

The dogs rose and growled.
"Be quiet there," cried Ralph.