Steady, Betsy; steady, lass; steady--" "Why, the lad's ram'lin'," said Reuben to himself.
"It was fifty strides north of the bridge," Robbie whispered again; and then lifting his voice he cried, "She's gone; she's gone." "He's ram'lin' for sure." The truth now dawned on Reuben that on the present occasion at least Robbie was not drunk, but sick.

With the illogical perversity of some healthy people, he thought to rally the ailing man out of his ailment, whatever it might be; so he expended all the facetiousness of which he was master on Robbie's unconscious figure.
Reuben's well-meant efforts were of no avail.

Robbie alternately whispered, "It was north of the bridge," and chuckled, "Ah, ah! there's Garth, Garth--but I downed him, the dummel head!" The little dalesman relinquished as hopeless all further attempt at rational converse, and gave himself the solemn assurance, conveyed to his acute intelligence by many grave shakes of the head, that "summat _was_ ailin' the lad, after all." Then they drove for hours in silence.

It was dark when they passed through Threlkeld, and turned into the Vale of Wanthwaite on their near approach to Wythburn.
"I scarce know rightly where Robbie bides, now old Martha's dead," thought Reuben; "I'll just slip up the lonnin to Shoulth'et and ask.".