Michael, the man-of-all-jobs, had been standing discreetly in the rear. The bravest folk had a trick of standing out of the widow’s reach. And suddenly he gave a great, loutish laugh. “’Tis this way, Mr. Gaunt,” he explained, with some show of haste. “Couldn’t help laughing, I. You told me, first you found me a job here, I was to look after missus. Well, durned if I haven’t a fancy, like, that the boot’s on t’ other leg. _She’s looking after me_, and I can’t help myseln. But she’s good at the weather, she is, I own,” he added reflectively. “She’s saved me a lot o’ trouble, all through in-gathering them ewes afore she’d right or sense in thinking it war going to snow.” “There’s the shippon to be cleared, soon as ye’ve done idling wi’ your broom, Michael,” said the widow. “Ye’ll take cold, in this weather, lad, if ye don’t bustle about a bit.” Michael slouched off shamefacedly; and Mrs. Mathewson, as she made Gaunt welcome in the living-room, surprised him by her cheeriness. It was only when he stood at the porch, to find his way down the moor again--through hazard of the snowdrifts, as he had come--that the widow reached out to him for help. She had gathered in her sheep; she was wise enough to know the look of the sky, and the way of a Strathgarth winter; but she was lonely and forlorn, for all that. “Reuben,” she said, gently, “the snow’s three feet or more over Peggy’s grave. It has drifted into the little glen, and the rowan-tree’s half hidden. I can’t thole the thought o’ my lass lying up yonder i’ the cold.” “Snow covers warm, mother, so they say.” “Ay, so they say; but I can’t believe it, when I see th’ glen. I could bear it better when th’ days were soft and pleasant, and maybe a throstle whistling i’ the rowan, or a starling plucking at the berries just ower Peggy’s head; it seemed friendly-like--Reuben, I war never one for prayer,” she broke off, with sudden passion, “but I tell ye I’ve worn my knees raw wi’ asking God to gi’e me back my lass. There war no answer; stands to reason there couldn’t be. One silly old woman bleating like a ewe that’s lost her lamb, bleating right up into th’ big, empty sky, Reuben, and thinking she’d get an answer. ’Twould be enough to make me laugh, if I didn’t cry, instead.” Gaunt was dismayed by this glimpse allowed him of the strong, tireless tragedy underlying the woman’s mask of tartness and half humorous self-control. And the widow, seeing his trouble, passed a hand across her eyes; her smile was like a break of sunlight, that can brighten the wintry fields but not thaw them. “Though to be sure, ’tis outrageous for a tough old bit of bog-thorn like me to be reckoning to have feelings o’ my own. Why, ’tis near as foolish as to find a son i’ my old age--a son all ready-made, so to say, like Moses in the bulrushes. Ye’d best be getting down to the moor, for it wouldn’t do to let dark overtake ye. Good-by, Reuben; ye’re a good lad to me these days.”