Billy paused at last to wipe the sweat from his forehead, and turned, and saw David standing in the doorway. There was no surprise in his face. He was content to play through the long winter, until the swallows came to build their nests again in Garth. He knew they would return, and waited patiently; for Billy, as all Garth knew, “was not wise.” “First o’ the swallows came yesterday, David,” he said, “and blessed if ye haven’t followed, quick as ye could scramble. ’Tis good to see ye both.” David was sore at heart. If he had been a woman, he would have leaned against the smithy wall and sobbed himself into a makeshift peace. As it was, he sought about for some trivial help in need. He found the help in that quiet, persistent thought of others which, perhaps, had lost him Cilla; the wise were apt to think him dull. He took a pouch from his pocket, and handed it to Billy. When the black clay pipe was charged, he passed a match across. It pleased him to see Billy light it tranquilly upon the anvil, pleased him to watch the slow wreaths of smoke curl among the rafters. “Your ’baccy always smoked a lile thought sweeter than other folk’s,” said Billy. In some muddled way, David understood that the welcome he had looked for, here in Garth, came from this massive, tranquil man whose power of speech was hindered. The warm air of the forge, the smell of it, soothed the fierce pain of David’s loss. Billy the Fool laughed unexpectedly; it was his privilege. He had caught sight of Dan Foster’s lad, standing idle by the bellows with a look of wonderment about his cherry-red face. “A queer lad, he,” said Billy. “He’s been working ever since you left, he has, while this same fool has had all the fun. ’Tis a terrible pranksome matter, this hammering horseshoes into shape. Ye take a bit o’ hard iron, and it says it will no way budge, however hard ye hit it; and ye say it shall budge; and then it gets into a fearful rage, and spits at ye with its lile, red sparks; and ye go on hammering, just for frolic, like, till bless me, if there hasn’t a horseshoe grown out o’ yond same bit of iron, like a sycamore-leaf fro’ the bud.”