She was right. The fever had gone, not only to Reuben’s head, but to the heart of the man. He had never been trusted before, as Widow Mathewson had trusted him. He had not been asked--save when he ran the Linsall fell-races so gallantly--whether his courage were sound as his wind. No one had taught him the way of his manhood until the time of stress at Ghyll; but now he was moving with uncertain steps, like a child first finding its feet, along his proper road. Cilla met him one forenoon on the bridle-path that ran through Raindrift Wood. For once in a way he was on foot, like herself, and not on horseback; and they stood looking at each other, startled by the sudden meeting. “We--we have heard pleasant things about you, Mr. Gaunt,” said the girl, trying to break down their disquiet, “and--and, indeed, we are glad that--that nothing happened to you up at Ghyll.” “I did what was needed, and was glad to be needed,” he answered simply. “There was nothing at all to talk about, though you know how folk build up a mole-hill and swear ’tis a mountain.” Cilla glanced quietly at him. He had come out a changed man from the furnace of those weeks at Ghyll. The easy, self-assertive jauntiness was gone; his small affectations of speech and manner were lost; and he spoke and carried himself as a yeoman should. The restless glitter, too, had gone from his grey eyes, and the look in them was of a man who had lately met life face to face. He was thin and haggard; yet Cilla was conscious only of some new strength in him. “Tell me of--of Peggy,” she said softly. “I was grieved when the news came down to Garth.” “She died without a good-by. That was the hardest thing to bear. If there’d been a half-hour given to us for talk before she went, it would have seemed easier. I was in need of forgiveness, maybe--” He stopped, and his eyes sought hers gravely. Cilla could feel nothing but a great tenderness, a sudden rush of pity. He was so quiet under punishment, so ready to admit that it was well-deserved. “You were always fond of seeing fresh places,” she said. “Leave Garth for awhile, will you not, until--until the memory of it all grows softened?” For the first time Gaunt smiled. “I’ve taken just the opposite notion into my head. Marshlands is a biggish place, and needs a master over it. They will tell you in Garth that it has not known much of a master these last years.” Generous always in compassion, she could not check herself, but laid her hand on his arm impulsively. “Never think that again! They tell different stories of you now in Garth.” “Yes, yes,” put in Reuben, with a touch of the weariness that would keep him company for many a day. “They’re full of praise I haven’t a need for. By and by they’ll forget, and I shall be ‘Mr. Running-Water’ to them once again. ’Tis well to know one’s by-name.” “Oh, you must not be bitter! I tell you, they have changed--”