“I’m not likely to,” she said demurely, and went up-stairs to doff her apron and to don a hat. Here, again, the earlier trouble beset her. What head-gear should she choose? To be sure, she did not look to meet Reuben in the fields; but he might ride in for a talk with her father--might be in the croft among the hens and turkeys, or in the paddock, or in the house-place when she returned. She wanted Reuben to approve her when they met. She made her choice at last, and Yeoman Hirst, just going out to see that his men were at their work, turned for a look at her as she came down the stair. “Bless me, ye grow bonnier, Cilla!” he cried, with a muffled roar of true affection. “Tuts! ’Twill be a blithe lad that tempts ye to share house with him.” Cilla answered nothing, but nodded gravely at Yeoman Hirst and went out by the door that opened on the garden. Up the young, green pastures she went, carrying first love with her. All things to-day were big with self-importance; and she, who had thought but little of herself till now, wondered if she would be always fair in Reuben’s eyes. She trusted so; for Gaunt seemed worth the best that she could bring him. One deep regret she had, to temper the new gladness. She was holding a secret from her father, and the knowledge, just as it had done last night, brought a sense of shame to her from time to time. In the background, too, was another shadow--that of David the Smith, with his abiding care for her. But the day was not one for shadow except such as the sun and the breeze between them chased across the pastures. The world would not let Priscilla be out of mood with it; the reek of the drying grass, on which late dewdrops lingered still, the clamour of the birds, the restless pushing up toward the light of winter’s hidden shoots--all was a conspiracy against repinings or backward glances. By the mossy lane past Brow-Top Ings she went, and wild-strawberry blooms, white and starry, peeped out at her from hidden nooks. Sometimes loitering, sometimes moving quickly, as if her thoughts outpaced her, she found the highest fields at last and saw the dark face of the moor above her. Not caring where she went, and obeying any whim, she climbed a fence or two and was free of the open heath. Here, too, spring’s advance was plainly marked, though it needs a subtler study to perceive it here than in the lower lands. Priscilla had no thought of foreign countries now. Garth, whose face she knew--Garth, the familiar and well-tried--was full of mysteries, delights, surprises. Could she have ever thought, she wondered, that Reuben Gaunt had painted fairer lands for her than this in which she lived?