“No,” said Gaunt, “I’m not by way of fooling now.” Outside there was no breath of ease to hint that rain might come to-morrow, or the next day after that. In the red of a stagnant sunset the day had ceased, and night brought only a sultry heat that taxed man’s endurance to the breaking point. “Reuben,” said Widow Mathewson, “I wish th’ wind would ding the house-door down, if only to stifle yond moaning up above us. She’s all I’ve got, an’ I can do naught at all.” “Bide and see, mother. All’s not over yet. There, let me fill your pipe again for you, mother. ’Twill never do to let you go handling an empty bowl.” Their vigil had begun. Widow Mathewson stole quiet glances now and then at the other’s face. She was wondering if the fever had been sent, after all, to make a man of Gaunt of Marshlands. CHAPTER XIX Dan Foster’s lad lost no time in delivering Gaunt’s message at Marshlands. Fright lent speed to his legs, and he was glad to pass on his terror to older folk, with a boy’s faith that they would be able, in their wisdom, to relieve him of it. He got little comfort, however, from Gaunt’s housekeeper. Her face was scared as his own, and she half-closed the door against him. “’Tis just like a trick o’ yond Mathewsons,” she snapped. “Keep themselves apart, they, and reckon to wear a mucky sort o’ pride o’ their own. Contrairy folk, I allus did say; and now they’ve brought fever into Garth. Oh, ay, ’tis like ’em.” With that she closed the door outright on Dan Foster’s lad, just as her master had done upon the stranger-woman long ago. She and old Gaunt suffered from terror of different kinds, but the result in action was the same. The lad whimpered afresh, just as Billy the Fool had done in that same long ago, as he found himself lonely in the cutting wind. Then he set off again for Good Intent. Miss Cilla would be there; and there was healing wherever Miss Cilla was. He found her throwing corn to her pigeons. “Where is your clutch of eggs, Dan?” she asked, looking at the empty basket on his arm. A boy who has had one rebuff fears twenty afterwards to follow, and Dan kept his distance. “Please, Mr. Gaunt wouldn’t let me come nigh.” “Why, Dan?” “I dursn’t tell.” Cilla came to the gate of the croft. “You’re no coward, Dan. Never say ‘daren’t’ again in my hearing.” “They’ve fever up at Ghyll,” he said, and turned half about, as if expecting to be driven away. Priscilla lost her courage, as Dan Foster’s lad had done, but her excuse was cowardice for another. Personal fear she had none; and throughout the long reign of terror, whenever her father had gone in dread of fever at times, Cilla had never yielded to panic. She had met the danger as she had faced the heart-sickness which Gaunt had caused her in the spring; for Cilla’s slimness, the charm which all acknowledged, were made up of strength, not weakness.