“Yes, father,” he heard Cilla answer. “You always did say I had luck o’ the weather when I took a journey.” Gaunt moved forward. The girl’s tone was so quietly happy that he was sure now of his hasty guess. David was on his way home, so he had understood; but perhaps he had changed his mind at the last moment, had found a profitable farm out yonder, and Cilla was going out to him. He remembered her longing, a year ago, to see what lay beyond Garth hills; it was bitter to recall how eagerly he had prompted her restlessness, had talked of other countries until at last he caught her fancy. And now she was going out to marry David, and it would be the slow-going smith who showed her the strange lands. The dim, white roads seemed to be slipping away from under Gaunt’s feet. He no longer wished to stay for a chat at Good Intent; his one desire was to get away with his misery, and conquer it as best he might. The yeoman checked him. He and Cilla were sitting on the stone bench just inside the porch, as they had sat for the last hour. It was dusk along the highway, but the porch was darker still, and Hirst, looking out from its shelter, could not mistake the figure striding by so quickly. “What have we done, then, Mr. Gaunt that you’re i’ such a hurry to get past the door?” roared Hirst. Gaunt laughed, with a constraint that puzzled Cilla. “Well, I’ve called so often lately that I fancied my welcome might be overstayed.” “Hear him, Cilla! As though every man in the dales didn’t know our ways. There’s two sort o’ folk, Mr. Gaunt. One sort would never set foot on my doorstep, if I could help it. T’ other sort can come dawn, or dusk, or middle day, and as often as they please. Now, step forrard, Cilla; we’ve been idling i’ the dark here long enough. Light up indoors, lass, and stir the peats, and set a couple o’ glasses out.” When they followed Cilla in, and stood in the lamp-glow, Reuben looked across at her. “You are going a journey to-morrow?” he asked abruptly. She did not meet his glance, but stooped to play with the kitten on the hearth. He saw the delicate colour come and go across her cheeks, as it did always when her feelings were touched in any way; and again he guessed that David was the cause. “Yes. I am going--to Keta’s Well,” she finished unexpectedly. One little, upward look she gave him, then went on playing with the kitten. The glance was so full of question, so quiet and yet so near to roguishness, that it bewildered Gaunt. Gradually he felt the ground grow firm under his feet again, as he realized that it was not David, after all, who had tempted her to make a journey. And suddenly he laughed. “Well, now, durned if I know why you’re laughing,” said Hirst. “Cilla tells ye she’s going up to Keta’s Well, as she goes every spring, to do a few lile oddments o’ business for me; and ye seem to fancy it a jest.”