“Yes, I’ve something to say,” he went on doggedly. “When you were a lile slip of a lass, and when you were maiden-grown and proud, Priscilla, I loved you just the same. I’m busy to-day, Cilla, but I broke off to ask if you would wed me. Could aught be plainer, now?” The girl rested her hands on the table, and looked at David Blake. She was silent, for surprise had given way to deeper feelings. It had been easy to disdain Reuben Gaunt, when he came wooing at a few weeks’ end; but David’s love was a thing to be reckoned with, a big, protecting force which had been about her for so long that it seemed fixed and righteous as Sharprise Hill--a part of this gracious world of Garth, a part of the comeliness and peace which brooded over its grey old fells, its grey and fragrant street. Priscilla of the Good Intent had little in common with Peggy Mathewson; but they were alike in this, that each looked out at life with candour and with little coquetry. Cilla glanced with troubled eyes at David--glanced wistfully and anxiously. “It cannot be, David; yet, if you asked me why, I could not tell you. I know you love me. I know that Garth would seem lone and empty if you were not in it. What ails me, David? Tell me, and I’ll right it if I can.” But David the Smith knew nothing of such matters. He had made his last effort--a hard one--and looked for a plain answer, yes or no. Even yet, had he known how to come nearer to the girl, instead of standing, very big and very bashful as he swung from one foot to the other--even yet he might have scattered those fantastic mists which Reuben Gaunt had woven about Priscilla’s life. “There’s no two ways, Priscilla,” he said slowly. “Either ye’ll have me and make life a different matter; or ye won’t, and I’ll trust ye to find a likelier mate.” “I’m not for mating--father has need of me--oh, David, David, I’m so fond of you, so loth to hurt you. Cannot you understand? I’m fond of you, but ’tis not just love--’tis not just love, David!” Her voice was trembling, and she fingered restlessly the loose scraps of dough that littered the baking-board. David stood motionless. The boy’s look, that is in every lover’s face, was gone. Not till now--now, when he had greatly dared and greatly lost--did he fully know what stake he had in Cilla’s love; and his face was hard and stern. “You were kind to hear me out, little lass,” he said at last. “Ay, ye were always kind and comely. And I’ve lost ye. Perhaps I may go on keeping watch and ward about ye, as I always did? ’Tis little I can do in that way, but I’ve always liked to think I was watch-dog, like, ever since as a child ye _would_ loiter round about the pool in Eller Beck, and I feared ye’d tumble in.” “Ah, hush, David! You’ve been too good, and I am not strong enough for Garth. I dream too many dreams”--with a pitiful attempt to smile--“and I’ve lost the way of the love I might have had for you.”