Banned by Garth village as she was, there was no man in it who could say that this lass from Dene Farm was anything but comely; more than one, indeed, had sought her company, in a diffident and non-committal way, to the anger of their womenfolk. Yet Peggy had never shown her beauty to the full, as she did now in the moment of her tribulation. She had seen Gaunt before he was aware that she was near, and had needed no second glance to convince her that a lover and his lass came wandering down the stream; and, having lived a country life, she knew that there was no way of dealing with a nettle save to grasp it. For that reason she straightened her firm, tall body--which had drooped a little because, until she turned the bend of the stream, she had been thinking kindly thoughts of Reuben--and she moved up the stream as if she were over-lady of Garth Valley. To Gaunt’s surprise she took no heed of him, but stayed to pass the time of day with Cilla. “Spring’s here at last, after the long winter,” she said, in the rich voice that even now moved Reuben. “Here at last, Peggy,” answered Priscilla, who banned no one, child or man or woman, whatever folk might say of them. “You’ve chosen the best time of day for your saunter, too.” “Likely I have,” laughed the other. “I’m courtship-high, Miss Priscilla, as they say in Garth, and my lad waits me somewhere up the stream.” “Well, then, I wish you happiness,” said Cilla, out of the warmth of her own glamour-tide. “’Twill be no secret soon, Peggy, that Mr. Gaunt here wants me to marry him some day.” Cilla rarely stayed to measure the wisdom of her words, and never when her heart was glad, because then, of all times, it was right to give sunshine out. Peggy Mathewson winced, recovered as from a blow, and turned to Gaunt with an impassive face. “Did not see you before, Mr. Gaunt. Miss Priscilla here wears such a look of spring about her that a plain body seems to want to see no farther, like. You might have chosen worse.” With a nod to Priscilla she went her way, and Cilla turned to look after her and to admire the bold, free swing of limbs and body. “There’s something whimsical about her, Reuben. Yet why they give the Mathewsons so bad a name, I could never guess.” “Nor I,” said the other lamely. “’Tis not as though they did aught amiss, save live outlandishly away from Garth and show little care for company. They’re an odd couple, mother and daughter both; but they carry themselves as if they had a pride in life, and even father owns that they know how to treat their cattle and how to rake the hay-crop in. That’s much for father to say, who thinks that women’s place is in the dairy and the house-place.” “I was thinking of you, Cilla,” broke in Reuben desperately. “Why spoil the night with talk of Peggy Mathewson?” “Nay, I know not. The girl has always puzzled me. I could have liked her, and been friendly, Reuben, but she seems always like the east wind, that will be friends with none.”