Reuben, scarce recovered from the first shock of the cob’s uprearing, was met by a sharper one. Yet again he laughed, for the crisp of the morning’s vigour was in him, as in all things that moved on two legs or on four. “Give you good day, Mrs. Mathewson! Scarce looked to see you here in these lone parts.” “Same to ye! Least looked for, surest found, is Mr. Gaunt of Marshlands.” Her eyes--hazel and big and clear, the one youthful relic that Widow Mathewson possessed--rested quietly on Gaunt’s own until he flinched. She was so sure of his frailty; so acquiescent, in a bitter, stifled way, under the trouble he had caused her aforetime, and now was causing her; so sure of her own honesty, and of his lack of it. “As usual, ’twould seem, I am busy, and ye are idle.” “’Tis a day to be idle on, if ever there was one.” “Maybe, for those born to addle no bite and sup. For my part, I’ve been seeking strayed sheep all across the moor, and not found them yet.” “Then ye’ve done no more work than I since sunrise,” said Gaunt. Widow Mathewson rested both hands on her hips, and drew herself yet straighter. Standing there in the sunlight, framed by the swart moor and the dappled sky, she seemed to Gaunt like a carven likeness of her daughter Peggy--of Peggy, grown older, harder, disillusioned altogether. The straight glance that rested on him was Peggy’s, too, and the mouth curved into a disdain that despised itself; only the daughter’s comely youth was lacking, and the flood of passion in her cheeks. “Looking for sheep would seem to be my trade in life from cradle-time,” she said. Her voice was grimly playful, lest the tragic note should sound too clearly and beat down the reserve she cherished. “Ay, I’ve been all my life looking for sheep and not finding ’em, Reuben Gaunt. A man’s love, and bairns, and profit from farming lean, intaken land--I’ve sought ’em all in my time, and found ’em go bo-peeping like the ewes I’m following now. Life’s like that, till ye’ve done with it--and maybe then we’ll find no softer bed to lie on.” “You’re cheery, Mrs. Mathewson,” put in Reuben drily. “Nice neighbour-body to fall in with, when a man’s spirits are running high.” “Oh, I’ve done with cheeriness--done with overmuch grief, too, by that token. Sometimes, when I look at ye, Reuben Gaunt, a touch of the old fire comes to me, and I long to throttle ye, stark where ye stand. Then I laugh to myself, knowing I’d fail at the job, somehow, though I brought all the will in the world to it. Peggy will have to thole her misery, as I did mine at her age; and, by that token, I’m keeping ye from riding out to see her.” Gaunt knew at last the hidden motive for his journey. He had not confessed it to himself; but this woman, with the hard, clear eyes and clear, hard insight into life, had found the truth for him. “I’m riding in the contrary direction, as it chances,” he said.