Cilla, still hating this random mood of hers, could not hold back the words. “They’ll say you choose your time for leaving carefully, after thinking about it all these months. They’ll say you are as frightened of the fever as other folk. They’ll say--that you’re a coward, David.” “They’ll be liars, then, Cilla. I’m a man o’ my hands, lile lass, and I’ve learned a little here and there fro’ my tools. Iron’s stubborn, and needs patience, but there’s luck, somehow, when ye’ve hammered the horseshoe into shape. As for the fever--well, it finds ye, or it doesn’t, and that’s i’ God’s hands. I’m a bit daft, like Billy the Fool. The day’s work is enough for me--Billy calls it play.” Priscilla looked at him for a moment, as a child looks for a guiding hand. “I--I was wrong to say that, David. No one dare say that you were frightened. David, what ails me that I want to quarrel with my oldest friend?” “’Tis the heat, Cilla. We’re all wearied out, I reckon. Quarrel wi’ me? You could as well quarrel wi’ yond grandfather’s clock i’ the corner, while ’tis saying _tick-tack_ to ye all day long and never changes tune.” Cilla laughed uneasily. “That is the reason, maybe. I love the old clock, but sometimes--oh, David, I’m weary of its notes sometimes--and yet I should cry my heart out if--if the clock was not ticking in the corner.” He should have seen her need of guidance, should have taken her random hint that he might try a change of note--even if his voice were unaccustomed to it and sounded out of tune. But David had made up his mind that morning, after long indecision, and his face was set toward the lonely lands. “Best listen to the old clock, for all that, Cilla. It doesn’t go fast, but it goes for a long while. Well, there’s a deal to be done, if I’m to get off by Tuesday o’ next week.” He took a last glance at Cilla, at the house-place, at the lilac frock that lay on the ironing-board; and without a word he stepped out into the dusty street. And, after he had gone, Priscilla of the Good Intent sat down at the table, and laid her head on it, and sobbed bitterly; but whether the tears were for David, or for herself, she did not know. David went down the street. He carried a big air; and his face, if sad at all, wore only the dignity of grief, none of its meanness or self-pity. He found Billy leaning against the door of the forge. Billy, thinking the more because he said so little, had watched the smith go up the street, had divined his errand by the same instinct which befriended him in his comradeship with birds and beasts; and now he knew from one glance at David’s face what was in the doing. “You’ll be leaving this right pleasant spot, David the Smith?” David was too accustomed to the other’s intuition to feel surprise. “Ay, I’m leaving Garth. And, lad, I’ve something to say to ye.” “Well, then, have ye a fill o’ baccy, an’ may be a lile match or so to light yond same? Smoke’s a fearful help to a daft body’s head-piece.”