Peggy o’ Mathewson’s had had her wish. A buoyancy, an exultation like Gaunt’s own as he covered those last ten score yards, possessed her. It was the woman’s pride, unalterable through changing generations, that “her man” had won his battle. When the evening came, and the sun dropped low over Linsall Moor, and the moon climbed big and round over the shoulder of Harts Fell, the green was full of couples dancing to the tunes of three fiddlers perched on Mother Lambert’s empty counter. And Peggy, though the men pressed round her like a swarm of bees, would dance with few but Gaunt. The scene was fairy-like in its remoteness from the humdrum round of work. The fells on the one side were white and magical; the moor on the other showed a dark jagged line of mystery; and between moor and fell, Linsall village lay steeped in fleecy moonlight, her bridge a slender arch of gossamer that spanned a stream of pearl and blue. There was no sound, save the gentle thud of feet on the grass, the squeak of the fiddles, the low tranquil laugh of some country lass as she heard what her lover stooped to tell her in the pauses of the dance. When Gaunt and Peggy left the green at last, and struck up the pastures toward home, they were followed by much nodding of heads and wagging of tongues. “Gaunt’s not content wi’ winning the race, ’twould seem,” said one. “Nay,” said another, “he seems like as he’s set on winning Peggy o’ Mathewson’s as well. There’ll be lile trouble i’ that, if the look in her face be aught to go by.” Peggy and her man moved steadily up the field-track, then more quietly when they reached the heath. “’Twas here you ran so well,” said Peggy, her eyes shining with some great, unreasoning happiness. “’Twas because you asked it,” answered Gaunt, slipping her arm through his own as they turned to look down on moonlit Linsall. The faint screech of fiddles reached them, reedy as the breeze that blew fitfully about the heather-stems. She was silent, and Gaunt felt that she was trembling. “Why, what’s amiss? Surely you’re not cold on such a night?” “Oh, it is naught, Reuben! I’ve had my day--as full a one as ever I could wish for--and I’m frightened, somehow, to go back, and begin to churn, and bake, and wash, and tend the fowls.” “I can ease you of all that.” Her eyes were soft, and full of the tenderness which life had tried its best to kill. She seemed about to speak, but checked herself. “Will you listen, Peggy?” “Oh, we must hurry, Reuben. Come away over the moor; there’s mother wondering all this while whatever can have come to me.” He did not understand her mood, did not understand the withdrawal which was at once proud and full of mute appeal. They crossed the moor in a silence broken only by the scuffle of a sheep as they awakened it in passing, by the sudden whirr of a cock grouse as he rose from the ling and went barking _to-bac, to-bac, to-bac_ across the moor.