It was in this way that she chose to meet the future. There would be no more stolen vigils under the rowan-tree, no undermining of her courage. With a sudden gust of feeling, she understood that Gaunt was the only living hope she had to rest upon--and there was danger to him. “Reuben,” she said gravely, “th’ long watch has begun. The days will seem long i’ passing afore we know we’re safe.” “We’ll weather them, never fear. Best not think of to-morrow at all, but get on with our work.” The widow glanced at him with keen scrutiny. “There’s a deal o’ sense hidden somewhere about ye, Reuben. Seems ye’ve been feared to let it peep out till now.” CHAPTER XXI Neither Gaunt nor Widow Mathewson was prepared for the quiet and temperate beauty that crept into their waiting-time at Ghyll. If Gaunt had neglected his farm work in old days, it was through idleness, not from lack of knowledge. Acquaintance with all details of field and stable had been bred in him, and the widow watched him go about the usual round of work with growing wonder. “A hired man would have done half as much i’ the day, and done it badly,” she said, finding him milking the cows one evening. “Oh, ’tis only the old proverb, mother, the master-man always works the better if he has the will. ’Tis not often that he has the will, ye see.” She watched him persuade the last of the cows to be friendly with the milking pail, listened awhile to the pleasant splash-splash of the milk. “Reuben,” she said, with a touch of jealousy, “yond’s the sauciest beast o’ them all, and ye seem to have her at a word. She wouldn’t let any but me milk her--not even Peggy, though she’d deft hands at the udders. And, Reuben, ye’re doing too much. Leave some bit o’ work for me to do, lest I get thinking o’ what’s past and done with.” “We’ll share and share alike,” said Gaunt, looking over shoulder from his seat on the milking-stool. “Some folk have queer notions o’ sharing. I tell ye, I’ve not been so idle o’ my hands sin’ I war a girl.” “All the better, mother. You’ve earned a rest by this time, while I--perhaps I’ve earned a spell of work,” he broke off, with something of the widow’s own grim humour. The busy needs of the farm were already helping these two to forget their burden. To Gaunt it seemed strange, profane almost, that sorrow for the dead should give place to workaday anxieties; to the widow, who was older in experience, it was plain that such work brought with it the gift of healing. All the routine at Ghyll was interrupted. It had thrived on its trade in milk, and cheeses, and butter. Now Widow Mathewson, and Gaunt, and the three pigs fattening in the stye at the far side of the mistal, were left to drink what they could of milk that once had supplied half Garth’s needs; the rest, save what was needed for their own week’s butter-making, had to be poured out into the parched and thirsty croft.