The dust went by them faster and faster; for Will prided himself on reaching Shepston to the minute, though he hated this overdriving of good cattle. “The widow’s never grown up,” he went on, cheerful and happy-go-lucky again, now that he had vented his grievance. “She’ll be a bairn o’ six years old till she dies. That’s her ailment, and that’s why we humour her, I reckon. Yet she married a fairish sensible man, and ought to have learned summat by now. Gee-up, lass Polly. We’ve time to make up, I say. She was left a widow too young, maybe.” Another mile went by, broken only by a farm lass who held up the coach like a gentle highwayman, handed a letter and a penny to the driver, and smiled at him. The outlying farmsteads posted their letters in this haphazard way, and neither the driver nor the maid said a word to each other; they were too friendly to need words, as it chanced, for Will was pledged to marry her within a month or two. The next mile passed them, dusty and white. The sun beat down, and there was not a friendly cloud to hide the pitiless blue of the sky. It was no friendly blue, such as pansies wear, when times go hard and the cool, quiet flowers look at a man with eyes of pity; it was a cold light and a hard light, for all its warmth, this never-ending sky that kept the Black Fever close to Garth’s borders. “There’s no good news fro’ Shepston, David,” said Will, by and by. “Every day there’s the same tale when I drive in--more folk down wi’ fever, and bodies waiting to be buried because the coffiners are feared to go nigh them. I’m tough myself, but I’m getting a lile bit nervous. They never stop talking on’t, ye see, i’stead o’ letting it be, and a man can’t help thinking o’ what’s being dinned into his ears by every body he meets. Bless me,” he broke off, with a quiet laugh, “I’ve got that bad I’m finding myself looking at Shepston passengers when they get aboard the mail--looking to see if there’s any sure mark of the fever on their faces.” His companion was still silent, and at last it struck Will that something was amiss. He turned his head, and checked his flow of gossip suddenly; he had not seen steady David in this mood before. A half-mile out from Garth, the smith had opened his right hand, had glanced eagerly to see what parting gift Cilla had left there when she said good-by. He found a sprig of rosemary, and, because he had held it so long in his hot palm, half fearing to look at it, the scent of the herb stole up to him.