“Niver smoked so mich i’ my life,” said the widow, reaching up for her pipe after dinner. “I’ve no knowledge o’ the lad that first brought ’baccy into Garth, but he did a service to us weak, human-folk. Fill up your mug, Reuben, and come and sit i’ th’ front o’ th’ fire, an’ talk to a body, like. I’m fair clemmed wi’ weariness.” At dusk of the same day the doctor finished his round and rode into Garth. It happened, as it had happened for three days past, that Priscilla was loitering in the roadway fronting Good Intent; it was a habit of hers, and the doctor guessed her motive, and responded to it, with the quiet, charitable humour that marked all his dealings with the dales-folk. “I’m in rare good humour, Miss Cilla,” he said, drawing rein. “D’ye see those bits of fleecy clouds coming up across the moon?” “I had not looked at the sky,” she answered absently. “It is ever the same these days, and one grows tired of it.” “Ay, but ’twill not be the same when you wake to-morrow. I was up at Ghyll this morning--” “Yes,” put in Cilla, with sudden interest. “And I pitted my weather lore against Gaunt’s. He said it couldn’t rain if it tried, and I said it was bound to.” He saw Cilla’s hand go to her heart for a moment, saw the brightness creep into her face. He had known all along that she needed to be told that Gaunt, so far, was well, and it had pleased him to wrap up the news in this talk about the weather. “They--they are both well at Ghyll?” she asked. “As sound as can be. I’ve an interest in those two, Miss Cilla. They deserve to come through it all, and somehow I fancy that they will.” “They say the chances are against it--” “Oh, they say a good deal of nonsense, time and time. There’s naught like pluck for winning a fight. Good night to ye, and pray that I miss Widow Lister as I ride by. Three days ago she was afraid of fever; this morning she caught me on the outward journey and, ‘Doctor,’ she said, ‘I’ve caught a chill that may well bring me to my grave.’ I laughed--as I do, Miss Cilla, in season or out, and ‘you’re lucky,’ I said. ‘If I could find a touch o’ chill under this brazen sky, I’d be glad of the relief, and so would my sweating horse.’ Good night again, little Cilla. Gaunt’s not going to die just yet, and I begin to think he might be worth your taking one day.” Cilla listened to the pitapat of hoofs as it grew fainter and fainter down the dusty road. The doctor had earned his right-of-way to folk’s hearts after many an up-hill climb, and his power to help his neighbours was not limited to their bodies’ needs. Whenever he felt that death was certain, he told his patient bluntly that the next world, not this, was his concern. While there was doubt, he thrust down his throat, willy-nilly, the physic of hope and sweetened the draught, so far as he could, with some racy, village jest. “There’s a good man goes down Garth Street,” thought Cilla, following the other’s sturdy figure as it disappeared among the shadows.