“Ay, women--’specially lone widows--were born just to try and hold up their heads and pretend, like, naught matters anyway. What I want ye to look at, David--the moon, young as she is, is better than a candle to see by--what I want ye to look at is my bit of a garden here. ’Tis no way big, David, and a plumpish cow could lie along it, and ye’d never know there was a garden there; but ’tis all I’ve got, and it rears a good few blooms from March time on to winter.” “Bonniest slip o’ garden in all Garth. Well, then, Widow?” “’Tisn’t well at all. Stoop down, David, and see where the auriculas were when I slipped, yesternight, to bed. See where the tulips were, and where the daffy-down-dillies were blowing all their trumpets.” “Ay, they’re gone, for sure,” said David, with real concern. “Gone? Should think they were. I came out this morning--feeling as cheerful as a lone widow ever does--and thought to water my bit of a garden. Found every single bloom picked off, David, and laid along the ground.” “Now, then, I’m sorry! Pride ourselves, we in Garth, that our gardens neighbour the road, and yet no hand comes picking flowers by stealth.” “’Twasn’t a hand. ’Twas greedy bird-beaks, David. Ye’re friends with John Hirst, up yonder at Good Intent? Well, ye can tell him from Widow Lister that ’tis time he penned his turkeys up.” “We’ve settled to do that to-morrow, as it chances.” “Should have done it a two-week ago,” went on the other briskly. “Fussy, ill-conditioned fowls, I call ’em. Every morn they come gobble-di-gobble down street, waking honest folk before ’tis time to wake. Heard ’em this morn, louder than ever, right under my up-stairs window, but I didn’t guess they were picking off my flower-heads for a bit o’ frolic. Wish I had. Would have been after them wi’ the thick end of a besom.” “What’s done can’t be mended, Widow. There’s a lot of comfort in that. Good night to ye; and, if you’re civil-like to David the Smith to-morn, he’ll likely bring a fresh lot o’ flowering stuff to fashion up your garden with.” The widow bade him good night in return, and let him go some twenty yards along the street. Then, with the trick that ran in her family, she followed him and called him back. “’Tis not only John Hirst’s turkeys,” she panted, coming close to David. “His daughter went roving, too, to-day. Got up on the coach for Keta’s Well, and Reuben Gaunt beside her. They didn’t return to Garth by coach, I noticed, and if I had John Hirst’s ear--” “Ye’d talk a lot of nonsense into it,” broke in David, sharply. “Miss Priscilla came home along the fields with Mr. Gaunt, for I met them. And why shouldn’t she, say I, if she’s a mind to?” It was not just truth that David spoke; but it was true to the hilt in this--that the good name of Cilla was to be kept sacred in Garth village at any hazard. As he neared the forge, a shadow got out from the wall-side and approached him.