“I must notify the death for them,” he thought, as he jogged along. “They’ll never think of the need for it, so I must. Well, I’ve not seen the lass, and it will be irregular, to be sure; but Lord knows they ask few questions when it’s a fever case. Soonest hidden away out of sight, the better folk are pleased these days.” Then he fell to thinking of Reuben Gaunt. Mrs. Mathewson had made it plain that Reuben entered the farm with knowledge of the danger, and that he chose to stay rather than leave her friendless. The doctor, during his years of rough intercourse with many people, had found less courage in the face of death than he cared to admit; he himself was as hardened against fear, as he was against exposure and fatigue, and he grew impatient when weaker men showed signs of panic. “He knew what it meant when he stepped into Ghyll,” he muttered. “Well, well, I’ve been mistaken in Gaunt, it seems.” At the end of his day’s round he was riding slowly down the village--his stout nag as wearied with the heat as himself--when he met Cilla of the Good Intent, and reined up. “You’re the only cool thing I’ve seen to-day,” he declared, with bluff gallantry. “Bless me, Cilla, how d’ye contrive it? I was never one to flatter, but you put me in mind of a spring flower peeping out of a hedgerow. It is not spring, child, and primroses are over for this year, and the heat, I tell you, is appalling.” He wagged his head fiercely, but Cilla only laughed; and the laugh was cool and dainty as her person. Then suddenly her face clouded. “We ought not to be jesting, doctor. Indeed we ought not. I cannot keep my thoughts away from those poor folk up at Ghyll.” The doctor halted, irresolute for once. He knew more of the history of the countryside than even Will the Driver did, and now he remembered many rumours, earlier in the year, that Gaunt would carry off Priscilla after all the rest of Garth had failed. He had been sorry to hear the news then; but his feelings had changed since morning. “Best tell you at once,” he said, “for you’re bound to hear it soon or late. Peggy o’ Mathewson’s died this morning.” He regretted his impulsiveness, when he saw Cilla move unsteadily across the road, and rest her hand on his saddle, as if she could not stand without support. He should have let another break the news that Gaunt was free, so he told himself. Cilla’s pride was of different texture from Widow Mathewson’s; but it was as strong in its own way, and it did not fail her when need came. She was pale, and her eyes were overbright, but she stood upright again and looked the doctor in the face. “Tell me,” she said, “did Mr. Gaunt go there--and did he stay in the house--of his own free will?”