There was something in the woman’s bitter jest that struck deeper than any curse would have done. Gaunt looked over his shoulder once, as he rode up the slope, and saw her standing, at once the victim of destiny and its symbol; and the breeze felt chilly to him on the sudden, as if there were snow behind it. “’Twas she that put the notion into my head,” he thought. “Well, then, I’ll ride to Ghyll, as she bids me, and I’ll see Peggy for the last time. We should part friends, and last night’s parting was no friendly one.” He came to the marshy flats on the moor-top where the stream had birth that ran through Water Ghyll. Wide to the north and south, wide to the east and west, swept the hills and moors and fields; here a broken ridge, and there a soft-descending, rolling spur of hills, showed like a rude girdle to the comely Vale of Garth. Beneath his horse’s feet the grouse got up and whirred, crying, crying over the desolate land; and the sky seemed near, as if a man, by reaching up, could touch it almost. In amongst the marshes Gaunt saw the sheep which Widow Mathewson was seeking. They were feeding on the rich butter-grass that grew in treacherous places, and he knew them by the branded _M_, red-painted on their fleeces. Good-naturedly he turned shepherd for awhile, drew round them--the cob showing frankly his distaste for the wet ground--and, by dint of whistling, as if he had a farm-dog with him, and by skill of horsemanship, he gathered the ewes into a flock before him. And so he rode down the moor again, forgetting his mistrust of Widow Mathewson in the sly pleasure of succouring her at need. She was standing where he left her, looking up the moor. Indeed, the big heath held only one figure and one thought for her; strong and weak herself, she loved the weakness and the strength of her daughter, the one link in her life that no storm had been powerful enough to break. She was past the stress of youth; but she remembered, and in her heart she was praying--she, who never went to kirk or chapel--that Reuben Gaunt might die. Gaunt whistled low and clear again, and sent down the sheep--a huddled, scampering flock--toward the woman. He was no fool in matters of the farm, but at usual times he was too indolent to use his gifts in that direction. “Coals of fire!” he shouted, putting a hand to his mouth to carry the sound up-wind. “Here are your sheep--gather them in and drive ’em home, Widow.” “Like him,” said Mrs. Mathewson, with patient wonder. “Kills the heart in a woman one minute, and the next goes out of his home-bee road to do her a good turn. Would God I knew what sort o’ clay this Reuben Gaunt is made of!” She gathered her flock together, and started to drive them home; but Gaunt was riding straight across the moor, and riding fast, for Ghyll.