Cilla knew that this distrust would lie between them always, if she did not answer frankly. She was glad he had given her so plain an opening. Hard as it was to speak, it would be harder afterwards, if she let the chance go by; and Cilla was never one to let the bigger evil come, for lack of courage to meet the lesser. “I was thinking of Billy, and a story I did not want to hear. Reuben, why do you always pass poor Billy as if he were nothing to you?” “He gives me little chance to do anything else,” said Gaunt, reddening as he met the quiet, questioning glance that would not be denied. “He hates me for some reason.” “Perhaps he knows--it is hard to tell what the poor lad understands, behind all that foolishness of his--perhaps he knows he’s your half-brother, and that you’ve denied it time and time again. ’Tis your denial troubles me.” Cilla could be merciless when there was need to reach the truth. She would not let his glance waver; she compelled him to be honest. “Cilla,” he said at last. “I _had_ to deny it. I’ll own to my own shame at any time, but not to my father’s. He may have been this or that, my father; but I’ll lie any day to keep what good name I can for him.” Will the Driver turned again, and pointed up the fells with his whip. “You always liked to see the deer, Miss Cilla,” he broke in. The wind of his own fast driving had carried their talk behind him, and he did not know how welcome was the interruption. “They’re browsing yonder near the fell-tops, just to the right o’ the spinney; d’ye see them?” Cilla sought for the brown specks, far up the pastures that stepped boldly to the sky. These specks of brown stood for the pride of bygone overlords of Strathgarth, in the days when their deer forest stretched out from Shepston to Keta’s Well, and a league or two beyond. And Will, whose forefolk, like himself, had lived within the limits of Garth’s hills, was proud of their diminished forest’s splendour. “The old stag’s fair riotous, so the keeper tells me,” went on Will. “He’s tame as a cushat the rest o’ the year, and will feed fro’ your hand; but soon as ever spring comes in, bless me, and saving your presence, Miss Cilla, he’s the devil and all with his nasty temper. Gee-up, Captain! We’re late,” he added, laying a gentle lash across the leader. “We’re always late, what with this constant plague o’ widows on the road.”