She comforted him with what good words she could summon, and he came again and again to her with his odd fancies and his recollections of the poor feeble philosophy which he had gleaned from books.

The look in the eyes of this simple girl and the touch of her hand made death less fearsome than anything besides.

Willy seemed to lean on Rotha, and she on her part appeared to grow stronger as she felt this.
Ralph had gone to bed much as usual the night before--after he had borne upstairs what lay there.

He was not seen again until morning, and when he came down and stood for a moment over his mother's chair as she sat gazing steadfastly into the fire, Rotha was stooping over the pan, with the porridge thivle in her hand.

She looked up into his face, while his hand rested with a speechless sympathy on his mother's arm, and she thought that, mingled with a softened sorrow, there was something like hope there.