Cilla was standing at the table, a puzzled frown on her face. She scarcely heard Harry’s chatter. The wished-for letter had come; it happened to be from David; and her only feeling was one of indifference. It had been different not many months since in the early weeks of her shame and loneliness, after bidding Reuben keep faith with Peggy o’ Mathewson’s. She had welcomed the first letter from Canada, had read and reread it, had taken courage from the strength underlying David’s crude sentences and simple penmanship. She had needed him then. And now? “Art in a day-dream, lass,” roared Hirst, tearing the letter open as he came in again. “Here’s news from an old friend o’ yours. Sit down by the hearth, Cilla, and let’s see what’s doing out i’ Canada.” Hirst read the scrawled pages with some difficulty, laid them down on the settle, and glanced across at Cilla. “There’s news with a vengeance. David’s coming home i’ the spring.” “So soon?” asked Cilla, with sudden disquiet. “It seems a far journey for so short a stay.” “So he thinks, too. He’s never what you would call bitter, isn’t lad David, but he comes near to ’t this time. His aunt Joanna, it seems, has found a man to her liking, and is going to be wed before long. She wants David about her till the wedding-day--trust Joanna for that--but not a minute later. The only thing David finds pleasant in the business is his longing to be home in Garth again.” Cilla’s interest was roused, as it always was by injustice. “But, father, she might have thought of that before sending in such haste for David. It was not as if she asked him to step across to the next parish. He left his work here, to--” “But Joanna never did think, save for herself. Bless me, I can see her smile and her easeful way of asking other folk to do her work--just such another as Widow Lister. Ye can’t argue about such women, Cilla; ye can only laugh, as ye would at a babby. So David’s coming home! Well! ’tis good news, say I. What say ye, Cilla?” he added, with a shrewd glance across the hearth. “Of course, father. Who would not be glad to see him again? He’s so kind, and steady, and ready to help everybody foolishly.” “Just so,” said the yeoman, with a laugh that was half a sigh. “He’s all that never i’ this world could tempt a lass. Male birds should wear brighter colours, eh? Read what he says there,” he added, reaching out for the letter, and putting his finger on the scrawled postscript. Cilla read the few words, then sat with the letter in her lap. The message was so brief, so clumsily put in its dumb appeal; yet it brought a sudden rush of tears to the girl’s eyes.