David stole many a look at the other’s face as they went forward with their labour. He was realizing that there were possibilities of tragedy about this lad with the big frame and the dangerous strength. It was a jest to drop a man gently into a bed of nettles--but what if Billy’s passion were roused in earnest? What if some one pierced through that slothful outer crust of his, and touched some deeper instinct in him? “Might be a sort of earthquake hidden in poor Billy,” he muttered. “’Tis hard to guess what he’s thinking of, right at the beating heart of the chap.” The smith would have been astonished, had he been able to sound these heart-beats of his comrade’s. It was Priscilla he was thinking of--Priscilla of the Good Intent--Priscilla, who brought the sunshine into Garth for one poor fool whenever she crossed his path. “She’ll be fettling up the house-place now, I reckon,” said Billy suddenly. “Who, lad?” “Why, Miss Priscilla. ’Tis her time of day for doing on’t. Te-he, David! I hoicked yon chap fair grandly over th’ wall--Sunday clothes, and _pritty-prat_ speech, and all. Nettles don’t sting i’ March, they say--but I’ve known ’em do that same.” CHAPTER III Spring was abroad indeed these days. Garth village, good to see even in grey winter-time, grew to the likeness of a well-kept garden. The winding street--white at one time, then glistening-grey when the sun shone on it through April rain--moved lazily between the cottages and the yeomen’s square, substantial houses. And always, between the house-front and the highway, there was a garden, big or little. Sometimes--when the cottage was so small in itself that there seemed no room for a garden-space--there would be a strip, no more than two feet wide, fenced round to guard it from the wandering ducks and geese and dogs of Garth. Sometimes a bigger house would shrink, with disdainful pride, from too close a rubbing of shoulders with the street; and its garden would be wide and guarded by a grey stone wall, with a white-painted gate in the middle of the wall. But always, right and left of the good street of Garth, there were gardens, and, whatever their size or shape might be, the same flowers bloomed in all. Crocuses still glowed yellow when the sun came out to waken them; but these were of the older generation, and daffodils were nodding already high above them with the effrontery of youth. Auriculas were showing the white miller’s-dust about their buds; the ladslove bushes pushed out green, fragrant spikes into this unexpected weather; primroses caught the laughter of the spring, and celandines looked humbly at the sunlight.