Out of the quiet night, the fragrant moor, there came a quickened sense of motherhood to the woman. Spring leads the younger folk down paths where the valleys shelter primroses and nesting throstles; it leads the old to the higher tracks where the sky and the moor-winds talk of abnegation. “Reuben, my lad,” she said, her harsh voice softened to the lilt of the heather-breeze, “Reuben, ye’re too full o’ life to live lonely for Peggy’s sake. There’s Marshlands, too. Have ye never thought that ye needed a son to follow you? Of course you have!” “Yes,” Reuben answered gravely. “Yes, I had thought of that.” “Why, Mathewson was a weakly man enough, but he never did forgive me for bringing a lile lass into the world, instead of a lad; and I always sort o’ respected him for it, somehow. Stands to sense, Reuben; it’s the man’s way to want a boy or two, to carry the old name and the old house on. It’s i’ the blood, and it goes deeper than any kiss-i’-the-coppice love o’ women. Oh, I’m old, and I know, and I’m telling ye!” she finished, relapsing into her favourite phrase. There was pluck in this quiet persuasiveness of the widow’s. She had been bitterly jealous on Peggy’s behalf, though her girl was long past all feeling of the kind. It had hurt her when now and then she had seen Gaunt and Cilla together in Garth Street, or in the fields, and had read their secret more plainly than they did themselves. Only by hard endeavour, by grasping her love for Reuben, and bringing her sturdy common sense to bear upon his welfare, had she found courage for this talk at Peggy’s graveside. “Besides,” she added, after a silence, “it was always Miss Good Intent.” For the first time a touch of the old bitterness was in her voice. “What did I tell ye long ago, Reuben? Ye need a ladyish mistress for Marshlands, ’specially now ye’re bringing the place into its old shape again. I’ll not complain, lad; and, as for Peggy, she lies very quiet and willun’t speak a word.” “We must wait, mother, wait and see what happens afterwards,” said Reuben gravely. “We’ll not talk of it to-night.” The bitterness left her, and she came nearer and laid a hand on his arm. “Life doesn’t wait. ’Tis only death can spare time for that. Just tell yourself old scores are settled handsomely, Reuben, and find yourself a mate.” The starshine and the silence of the moor wrapped the two of them about. The fever-heat of August, the misery and fear, were softened, till they seemed, to Gaunt, if not to the widow, part of a tragedy much further off in point of time. A peewit came straying down the moor, and wheeled and cried about the rowan-tree.