“Runs in the family,” he said, flicking an early fly from the leader’s back. “Widow Fletcher here, and Widow Lister yonder at Garth--they always want you to do something for them, and always ask you to do it after you’ve fairly started. There’s a trade in widowdom up hereabouts, I fancy. Gee-up, Captain, will ye?” he broke off, touching the leader more sharply with his whip. “You were born of the male kind, Captain, and so was I, and we’ve got to make up for lost time ’twixt here and Garth.” “Cilla, shall we get down this side of the village?” said Gaunt suddenly. “We’re nearing Willow Beck Bar, and ’tis summerlike for a saunter home by the fields.” Priscilla looked again at the fells, and smelt the sweet of the breeze as it passed her. It was three miles from the grey little toll-house to Good Intent, and there was a suggestion of mystery and adventure in this finish to a holiday. “Why, yes,” she answered simply, “I’ve seven packages with me, but Will will see that they get safe to Good Intent.” They got down at the squat, quiet toll-bar, with its windows fronting, like a bee’s eyes, on all sides of its face. They went through the gate together, and Will the Driver watched them for a moment as they turned into the path that followed the slight stream’s course. “See her parcels safely ’livered at Good Intent?” he said to himself. “Would do more for the lile lass, I. Pity she seems so friendly-like with Mr. Gaunt. Should keep to dogs and horses, Mr. Gaunt--he understands ’em. Now, Captain, _will_ you know I’m late on the road, and trust to you to make the whole team work?” CHAPTER VII They followed the winding stream-track, Gaunt and Cilla of the Good Intent. And now it was that the day, receding in the west, grew beautiful as it had never been at height of noon. Strange purples shadowed all the distant fells, while near at hand the pasture-fields moved in green, tranquil softness to the heath above. “You are quiet, Cilla,” said the other by and by. “Quiet? I was listening to the curlews.” Not the words, but the girl’s low, passionate voice told what the curlews meant to her. Now, when the silences crept, dumb of feet, all down the furrows of the land, it was the curlews only that were loud. Wide about Sharprise Hill they called, and along the raking backs of Hilda Fell, and across and over the ordered lines of grey walls, green fields, and scanty woods that were Garth Valley. They would not let folks rest, but went crying, crying, fretting, fretting, while Sharprise wore his ruddy sunset-mantle, and Garth Crag, away to the east, was donning her grey night-cap.