Widow Mathewson paced up and down the living-room with her manlike strides; and by and by she heard Gaunt pacing up and down the floor above. It was Gaunt’s hour of bitterness, the first hour of his heedless life that had found him ready to hearken to his lesson. If he had dealt ill with Peggy o’ Mathewson’s in times past, he was paying something of the penalty now. It was not so much the bodily change in her that shocked and terrified him; it was the knowledge, brought suddenly home to him, that she did not care whether he stood at her bedside or not, that likely she would never care again in this world. The incessant moaning maddened him; it seemed to tell of an anguish that was beyond reach of his help. He could not believe that Peggy herself felt nothing, knew nothing--that it was he, in full vigour of mind and body, who suffered for her, just by looking on. He came down the stone stairway at last, and the widow ceased her restless walk. She looked at his face. It was white and stern, but there was no trace of personal fear on it. “It was as well I came,” he said. “As well you came,” she echoed. “You say that after--after going in yond up-stairs room?” “Yes, mother. You may be tough, but ’twould drive ye mad to live alone with what’s in the house here. Mother, is there naught at all we can do to ease her?” he broke off. “Ay, but not mich. I’m skilled enough i’ nursing-work, so far as that goes. But t’ fever shoves a body aside, an’ willun’t let nursing have its say.” For the first time she let weakness overcome her. Her tears were few, but full of passionate relief; and they were a tribute to the sense that, for once in her stormy life, she had a man about her in time of need. Gaunt patted her gently on the shoulder. All the hidden liking between the oddly-assorted pair was patent to them both. “That’s better!” he said. “Wish Peggy up yonder could cry like that. ’Twould do her a power o’ good.” Toward gloaming of that day, as Reuben stood at the window after one of his fruitless visits to the room above, he saw a lad come up the slope of the moor. He ran out across the croft, and shouted to the lad. Already he had learned the instinct of all who had seen the fever close--the instinct to cry, like a leper of old, that none must come too near. The lad ceased whistling, and halted in surprise; for Reuben, though he did not know it, was waving his arms like one far gone in drink or madness. “I war nobbut stepping up for a sitting of eggs fro’ th’ widow. Miss Cilla o’ Good Intent telled me to come,” he said, half blubbering. “’Twas promised, yond clutch of eggs, an’ Miss Good Intent wants t’ chickens reared i’ good time for the winter.” Gaunt saw now that it was Dan Foster’s lad, whose delight, like that of bigger men-folk, was to run errands for Priscilla when he was not blowing the bellows for Fool Billy at the forge.