Reuben Gaunt, meanwhile, had turned up the lane that led to Good Intent. He knew that John Hirst would be at Shepston market, and was sure therefore of his welcome at the farm. He did not get as far as the house, however, for Priscilla was standing in the home-croft as he came through the stile. From sheer frolic she had donned a sun-bonnet, pretending that this April sunshine was overwarm to bear uncovered. The bonnet was pink, and her simple gown was lavender-blue, and she looked, to Gaunt’s eyes, the trimmest and the bonniest maid that he had seen in all his travels. She was feeding a noisy multitude of hens and turkeys, and it was pleasant to see how carefully the bigger birds refrained from stealing from the fowls--nay, left the tit-bits to them often, and showed altogether the behaviour of a big, good-tempered dog towards a small and fussy one. It was the turkey-cock that first warned Priscilla of Gaunt’s approach. The “prideful devil,” as Billy the Fool had called him, was proving his right to the title in good earnest. His tail was spread, his wattle grew and grew until the head of him was crimson as a wild-rose berry when autumn’s sunshine lights the hedgerows. He made towards Gaunt, moreover, with little steps that in their fretfulness and self-importance suggested comedy. Priscilla turned to learn the reason of this outbreak, and her eyes met Reuben’s. A delicate flush and a look of pleasure in the girl’s candid face was Gaunt’s welcome--a greeting which John Hirst would have understood had he been there. “Good day,” she said sedately, and turned to feed her birds again. Gaunt laughed bitterly. “Do you see the turkey-cock’s welcome, Cilla? All the male folk of Garth seem out of humour with me somehow.” It was another sign of the new days which Reuben had ushered into Garth--one of those signs which are no bigger than a cloud the size of a man’s hand--that Priscilla of the Good Intent did not resent the shortened name which few but her father had been privileged to use till now. “You are out of heart with life,” she said, scattering the last of the food abroad and turning to meet his glance again. “Nay, life’s out of heart with me, Cilla. They seem to think I’m lying, these Garth folk, when I tell them I’d be glad to be here again among the old home-fields, if only they would let me.” The man was sincere. It was a dangerous gift of his, this habit of speaking what was truth for the moment, though it had no quality of strength and purpose behind it. It was a dangerous gift of his, too, that women were compelled, when near him, to feel an odd, protective instinct. Peggy Mathewson had felt the motherhood of life rise up and cloud her judgment as she walked with Reuben a week ago through the sunlit fields; and now Priscilla of the Good Intent felt pity’s strength awake.