Now that he had met his trouble, had seen Priscilla face to face and conquered the outward signs of heartache, David was almost merry. It had been a desperate venture, this of meeting Cilla so soon; and, now that he was in the thick of it, he felt something of the glow and mad-wit gaiety which attends on great adventures. Never had Cilla guessed till now that David Blake could be so light of talk. The sobriety, nearing dulness, which she associated with him was gone. Keen, quick lights of humour played about his face. He had stories at command--droll tales which Will the Driver had told him of the road, sly anecdotes concerning the foibles of his neighbour-folk. He was guarding a heartache bravely, was David. Once, in the pause of talk, he looked at Cilla, and found her eyes resting on him with strange intentness. She was thinking that the helping hand-grip she had sought not long ago, when she resisted and yet longed for Gaunt’s caresses, was David’s own. And, when she saw that he had caught the glance, and was trying to read it, she took up her sewing, and hoped the colour in her cheeks would be counted to the firelight’s credit. “Why, Cilla, I’ve a horn of ale beside me, and David here has none!” said the farmer abruptly. “Where are your manners, lass?” “Nay, now, take no trouble,” protested David. “I’ve a pipe betwixt my teeth, Farmer, and what more should a man want?” “Trouble is as it’s taken, David. If ye go forth from Good Intent without a something good and mellow in your inwards--why, bless me, there’s no cheer left in Garth.” Priscilla was glad of the excuse to put her sewing down and busy herself with David’s comfort. “I’ll leave you to your talk, father,” she said, after making sure that the farm’s hospitality--cherished for three centuries or more--was no way shamed to-night. “Ay, but come back to lay a trifle of cheese, and cake, and oat-bread on the table. Have supped once already, I, and so has David, likely; but strong work comes strong to victuals, Cilla, at the second asking.” CHAPTER IX Priscilla gave some fleeting answer, and was gone. Up the stone stairway she went, and into the chamber beside the apple-tree, which, grown sturdy, was putting out green springtime leaves. A slim, white sickle moon lay helpless on her back--lighting in a softened fashion Garth’s fragrant valley. Through the opened casement the tempered April wind was fretting, as it blew the muslin blind aside. It was a night when fairies played about the land, when human ears, not deaf to all romance, heard music fluting through the dull world’s uproar. Priscilla of the Good Intent leaned her two arms on the window-seat, and looked out upon the vagueness of the landscape lit by the young moon. She was thinking of her surrender to Reuben Gaunt, and wondering if she were happy in her choice; and always as she asked the question--pretending to herself that she asked it not at all--David’s shadow stole in between herself and happiness.