“Reuben, lad, go back ower th’ moor,” she said, peremptorily. “If one’s to die, there’s lile use killing two. I tell ye,” she broke off, with a touch of her old bitterness, “the fever takes no more count o’ Mr. Gaunt o’ Marshlands than it does o’ plain Peggy Mathewson. ’Tis not just a risk ye’re taking; ’tis as near to certain as aught i’ this life can be that ye’ll catch it, an’ die on’t, an’ no more o’ Gaunt o’ Marshlands.” “Well, there’s not much to boast of as it is. If you put it that way, I’m risking little.” Widow Mathewson, though she and Peggy had lived high up above the peopled villages, had a sure instinct for truth or meanness in her fellows. She could detect no sign of cowardice under Gaunt’s quiet acceptance of his destiny. There was no bluster, covering a weak purpose. He meant to share Peggy’s trouble. “Reuben, there’s few i’ Garth would be so daft,” she said, still guarding the porch. “Think while! I’ve known what the fever means longer than ye could know it. Thirty year back it came to Garth, an’ good men o’ their hands--good men o’ their lives, too, an’ honest--dared not come nigh a house that had the white cross on it.” “My father used to tell of it.” Reuben was indifferent, as if it were no time to listen to bygone tales. He was thinking of Peggy, lying helpless in the up-stairs room. “Did he tell you that the coffiners were found missing, when they were needed to see bodies buried decently fro’ end to end o’ Garth? Did he tell ye that men who’d faced storm on th’ moor, an’ danger o’ most sorts, sat shivering by their fires, an’ dursn’t stir a finger to help stricken folk? Oh, Reuben, lad, ’tis no game o’ kiss me by the stream, this, and naught to bother ye after.” “Never said it was, mother,” said Gaunt drily. “I’m here to see we do our best for Peggy.” The widow understood, somehow, that Reuben the despised was her master in this time of stress. Weak as running water he might be afterwards, when better days arrived; but now he had the strength of many a likelier man. Her good man had been weak in all days, fair or foul, and memory of him had hindered her outlook upon Gaunt. She stood in silence for awhile, her spare height framed against the entry to this house of sickness. Far down the reaches of the moor, a tired haze lay, and prayed for rain; from the blue of the weary sky the sun shone fiercely. Again the mother-pity came to Widow Mathewson. For herself, it did not matter; she could tend Peggy, and could die if her time had come, and no tears wasted; but Gaunt had no need to die just yet. She guarded the grey old porch as men, in the lawless times, had fought for their wives and bairns at this same door.