“Nay, that you won’t! The lad’s well enough, Reuben. His big fault, if I must own to ’t, is that he willun’t let me do my share o’ the work. ’Tis all the grand lady he’s making me, and I was never reared to idleness. Shall be furnishing a parlour, I, if all this mak o’ nonsense goes on, and sitting wi’ a bit of fancy-work i’ my lazy lap, and thinking how many ailments I’ve gotten, like Widow Lister down at Garth.” Gaunt rode home that day, as on many others, with a pleasant memory of Mrs. Mathewson’s laughter, the smoothing of the deeper lines about her face, the power he had of drawing her mind away from griefs buried long ago. This luxury of bringing comfort to other folk was growing dearer to him. It had been left to him to find out, unaided, that he had the gift; he had had no help when first he blundered into the knowledge. He was the stronger now for this lack of aid, and a quiet, yet buoyant confidence was replacing his old, haphazard jauntiness. He was often at Good Intent, when work about the farm was done and he had leisure to stroll down for a pipe with Yeoman Hirst. Cilla would move about the house at these times, doing little, needless work of setting things to rights against the morrow; or she would sit beside the hearth, and intercept grave glances from Reuben--glances which she answered with the same look of question and of hope. It was their waiting-time, just as it was waiting-time for the frozen pastures; spring would have to step in before they found the answer to their riddle. “Gaunt grows shapelier,” the yeoman would say, after one of these fireside evenings. And Cilla would laugh. “He was always shapely enough,” she would reply demurely. “Oh, ay! I was not thinking o’ come-kiss-me-quick shapeliness, and all that light make o’ moonshine. He’s showing his true breed at last, and I’m glad. His father--well, he’s under sod, and I oughtn’t to say it, but he was as near the devil’s likeness as I’ve seen yet. ’Twas a pity, lile Cilla, for the Gaunts go back to Norman William or thereabouts, and there have been few black sheep i’ the flock. Now, get to bed wi’ your fancies, lass. I’ve said as much as a cautious man ever dare say i’ praise o’ Wastrel Reuben; but I’ve seen your daft looks--yours and his across the hearth, all as if there’s never been a couple wanted to wed before--and you must gang your own gait, for Lord help the man who tries to stop ye, slim as ye are.” Exhausted by his eloquence, Hirst would reach out for his mug of ale, and Cilla would go softly up the stair, with shame in her cheeks and peace at her heart. She would lean at the open window, not knowing that the night wind blew cold, and would see new beauties in the moonlit street, the moonlit, hazy fields beyond.