“Well, no,” said Gaunt, the new hope and the fresh colour showing in his cheeks. “I did, till the rain came; and I was as near to fright as ever I’ve been in my life; but that’s all gone. Mrs. Mathewson has taken heart, too.” The doctor looked him over once more. “I’m not here to play Providence,” he said, with an air of quiet relief. “This horse of mine, with his fiddle-head, could never carry so heavy a burden as Providence; but I think, Mr. Gaunt, you may let me take word to Marshlands that they can begin to get ready for you, air the sheets and dust the rooms, and all the nonsense women like.” “I shall be needed here for awhile,” said Reuben. “That’s as you please.” The two men stood looking at each other with great friendliness, though in years past their intercourse, on the doctor’s side at least, had had more than a touch of chill in it. Gaunt had not given that side of the matter a thought; yet these weeks at Ghyll had divided, like a deep gulf, the old days and the new; whatever lightness he showed in future, his neighbours would look behind it, and would see a stricken farmstead instead, and a man entering it of his own free will to succour others. The folk of Garth were slow, maybe, to form new opinions of men, or crops, or weather; but in the long run they were just, and they did not forget. The doctor read a good deal in Reuben’s face just now. There was a light of happiness in it--unquestioning, childlike happiness, dimmed just a little by awe and some bewilderment. He had seen the look often when one or other of his patients had lain near to death and had lived on to watch another spring spread magic fingers over a world that now was doubly sweet to them. “’Tis not so easy to die as I thought,” said Reuben, breaking the silence unexpectedly. “You never know how fond you are of being chained to this daft world, until--well, till you begin to listen for the snapping of the chains.” “I’d be sorry to leave it myself,” said the doctor, with his big, heathen laugh. “They work me to death, and I’ve seldom an hour to call my own, and first I’m baked with sun-heat, and then I’m chilled by this mist-rain ye’re so fond of, till I scarce know whether I’m dead or alive, but, bless ye, Mr. Gaunt, there’s some queer sort of joy in life, after all. Besides,” he added, with his own grim pleasantry, “there’s a certain doubt as to what comes after.” “There is,” murmured Gaunt, though he would have been slow to confess as much at another time. “I fancy ’twas the doubt troubled me, when I looked up at the sky, and felt the brazen heat.” “Just my feeling,” said the other cheerily. “It might be hotter out Beyond--or again it might be damper--I never liked extremes.” Again there fell a silence between them, and still the doctor lingered for the sake of lingering, and because he knew that Gaunt was weak after long strain and needed a man’s chatter in his ears.