“Ay, he would. Give him a bit o’ straight running for foolishness’ sake, an’ he’s clever; ’tis when ye want him to do summat wi’ sense at th’ back on’t that Gaunt fails ye--fails ye ivery time.” “I want you to ask me indoors for once,” put in Reuben. The widow looked at him curiously. Without emotion, as if she were counting up her egg money and finding the total right, she realized that there was a change for the better in him. His tone was grave, and he had lost his light, come-and-go air altogether. “As ye please,” she answered, stepping aside to let him pass. “’Tis so late now for us early-to-bed folk that a bit later willun’t signify.” In grim silence she brought cake and elderberry wine from the corner cupboard and set them on the table. Whether a guest was a welcome one or no, he must not leave without a show of hospitality. “Just help yourself, Mr. Gaunt,” she said, with a certain stateliness that was no way out of keeping with her rough gown and weather-stained, tired face. “Oh, by and by,” he said. Peggy and he were standing on either side the hearth, and Widow Mathewson saw the confident, warm glances that passed between them. “We’ve something to tell you, Mrs. Mathewson. Peggy was pleased with my running, maybe--or perhaps she saw I was fondish of her--anyway, she has promised to come down to Marshlands as mistress there.” Mrs. Mathewson began to stride up and down the floor. It was her way--the man’s way--when deeply moved. Folly, disaster, she had looked for whenever Gaunt had crossed their path; she was not prepared for honesty. “See ye,” she cried fiercely, turning to meet Gaunt’s eyes, “are ye meaning this? I tell ye, we’re proud, bitter-proud, up here at Ghyll. I’ve no man to look after Peggy--th’ one I lost would have been littlish use even if he’d lived--but I was not built after a gentle pattern, Reuben Gaunt. If ye’re planning some fresh bit o’ devilry, I’ll bid ye keep clear o’ my hands. They’re strong hands--when I care to use ’em.” Reuben was at his ease for once in the widow’s presence. This new sense of honesty was a gentler, and yet a stronger feeling than he had known since childhood. “’Tis this way,” he said quietly. “We happen to want one another, and we’re bent on getting one another.” “Ay, ye’re bent on it,” said the widow drily, not taking her eyes from Reuben’s face. “You’re bent on it to-night. The full moon glamours folk, so they say. Will ye be bent on it to-morrow?” “Mother, you’re hard on Reuben!” broke in Peggy. “No harder than he’s been on me, these years and years past. Are ye playing wi’ my lass, or are ye not? She’s all I have, mind.” Gaunt would take no offence. His spirits were high, and that curious sense of well-doing was with him still. “I shall be getting things to rights at Marshlands to-morrow. A house that has had no mistress all these years will need setting straight. After that, Peggy has only to choose the day when she’ll come to it.”