Cilla was standing at the table in the full light of the sun that streamed through the narrow windows, and she was ironing a lilac frock. She had not heard his step. “Cilla!” he said, in a low voice. She started, and let the iron fall, and did not heed that it was burning the lilac frock--the gown which, so short a while since as this year’s spring, had pleased Reuben Gaunt. They stood there--David on the threshold, Cilla at the table--and they looked at each other in silence, asking some big question. “You may come in, David,” she said at last. He came and stood beside her, took up the iron and set it on its stand, with the instinct of a good workman. “The lilac gown is burned, Priscilla.” “It has served its time, David. Did you come to Good Intent just to tell me I was careless with my ironing?” “No, I didn’t, Cilla.” The smith had grown resolute again. “I came to tell you that I’m sailing Tuesday o’ next week for Canada.” She was stunned for the moment. David had seen her bonnie since he knew her first, but never bonnie as she was just now, with the sunlight on her drooping head, her fingers plucking at the scissors in her girdle. “I’ve ta’en time to make up my mind, I own,” he went on stubbornly, “but ’tis made up now. My aunt Joanna, overseas yonder, is a lile bit like Widow Lister--she’s helpless without the good man she nagged into his grave, and she willun’t take no fro’ me. She’s fonder o’ nephew David these days than ever she was when she had him close under her hand. She wants somewhat done for her, ye see.” Cilla glanced up at him, then down again. “What--what has made you in such haste to leave, David?” “Haste, ye call it? I’ve been for going ever since April came in, and putting off makes no job easier.” “You’ll be glad to leave Garth, and see bigger countries?” Priscilla could not understand herself. It seemed to her that she wished to hurt David in some way; she was surprised, ashamed, that news of his going should have such power to move her. “Glad to leave Garth?” echoed David, his blue eyes wide with question. “Never that, lile Cilla. As ’tis, I should never have dreamed o’ going, if there’d been you to keep me here.” “Could I keep you, David?” “Oh, lass, don’t play wi’ me. I cannot bear it. I’ll go easier, all the same, for knowing all is finished between you and Gaunt o’ Marshlands.” The iron was cold by this time, but Cilla passed it idly to and fro across the lilac gown. “Yes, all is finished--and--and I’m, oh, so glad, David! So very glad.” In token of it she burst into tears, and David put an arm about her. “Lile lass, lile lass, let me bide i’ Garth. See the love I’ll give ye--asking so little, Cilla, and giving so much--giving so much, my lass.”