Cilla of the Good Intent met Gaunt by chance these days on the highway, or in half-forgotten bridle-paths that were young when grey old Garth was in the building--and they passed a greeting one to the other, and went their ways. She was puzzled--and so was he, had she guessed the truth--to note the change in him. He was less assured than of old; there was shame and appeal in his eyes when he met her; he seemed to Priscilla like some big, helpless dog that had lost its way and went seeking for its home. Cilla was true daughter to Yeoman Hirst. She might suffer, but malice went by her like a peevish wind-gust that is over and done with as soon as it is past. She wished no ill to Gaunt, though he had spoiled her first dream o’ love. She wondered, simply and without overmuch repining, that her life had grown so empty, that she no longer cared for the flower-scents and the wood-reek that guarded Garth village like a benediction. The year wore on to July, and there had been no rain since a light April shower that had followed the snowstorm. The pastures, striding stony limestone hills, grew parched and brown. With August, and no rain from the pitiless blue sky, even the brown of the grass was burnt, and the lightest of warm breezes carried the dust of the brown way. Far up the crests of the hills there was no green to soften the white glare of the limestone. All was pitiless and bare, and lacking any gift of charity. The sun, at usual times a rare and welcome guest, had overstepped his welcome now. A rumour came to Garth these days, and the farmers, as they rode down the street to market, grew less cheery in their greetings one to another. They knew, each one of them, the danger that lay near to their wives and bairns; and, knowing it, they kept silence, as the way of the hills is when a tempest shakes them. Their wives heard the rumour, by and by, and there was clatter of tongues along the dust of Garth’s grey street. Widow Lister, by gift of nature, talked more shrilly than her sisters, just as she had been the first to bring the news which no folk cared to hear. “I telled ye so,” she whispered, running out to meet Hirst one day as he passed down the street. “The Black Fever has come nigh to Garth, and ye wouldn’t take no heed. I’m a lone widow myself, with no one to care for--” “Oh, ay, but you have!” Hirst’s voice was cheery still, though it was less boisterous than usual, and behind it there was a hint of sharp reproof. “You’ve yourself to care for, Widow. That means a lot to ye.” “Now, what do ye mean?” “I mean this. That folk who have only theirselves to think on, they forget to think for others. See you here, Widow, the fever’s not reached Garth yet. ’Twill reach it sooner, I warrant ye, if you go scaring timid women as you’re scaring ’em each minute o’ the day.”