“A straight tale?” snapped Hirst “What about my lass? Lad, ye’re crazy to think I don’t know your doings five years agone all up and down the countryside. Step in, however, and we’ll thrash this business out for good and all.” CHAPTER XII Cilla was leaning on the window-ledge when she heard her father’s footstep in the porch. The house-place was unlit and dim, save for the flickering of a fire that was dying hard in the wide grate; but at the window here there was a soft and tranquil light, half from the gloaming and half from the clouded moon. The geraniums, lined all along the ledge, showed a more chastened red than in the sunlight. Outside, among the lilacs and the hawthorns and the late-leafing copper beeches, the birds were twittering restlessly, and now and then were giving a last, clear challenge to the night. Priscilla of the Good Intent had been crying quietly. She was stunned no longer, and had gone through a fire of anguish in amongst her usual household business; and now the tears had come, as dew falls on the parched, tired fields. She was glad, when she heard her father’s step, that it was dark indoors. “Why, Cilla, ye’re all in darkness here!” cried Hirst, seeing her outlined by the half-light that filtered through the window-space. “I was idling, father. The day’s so sorry to go down the hills, and I was sorry, too, to watch it go.” From a brave stock came Cilla, and her voice was clear and even. “Ay, but I’ve brought company, lile lass. I’ve promised him neither bite nor sup, but at the least he must have a candle lit here and there about the house-place.” The girl raised her head quickly, and stood back a step or two. It was hard enough to meet her father, but she was not prepared to welcome “company” of any sort. She tried, in the dusk of the room, to see who it was that came, but the guest was hidden by Hirst’s bulk. Not once did she guess that it could be Reuben Gaunt. Had Billy the Fool not led her to the thorn-bush this morning, such a visit would have been natural and looked-for; but Cilla, single-hearted and understanding little of concealment, could not realize that Gaunt, trusting in her ignorance of all concerning Peggy Mathewson, might still come asking Yeoman Hirst for his daughter. “Will you light the candles, father?” she said hurriedly. “I--I am all in my workaday frock, and I must tidy myself if you bring company.” Hirst would have had the matter settled at once; but, before he could protest, the girl had run lightly up the stair, and her footfall sounded crisply overhead. So he lit the candles, standing in their handsome sticks of Sheffield ware; and he took his place in front of the dying fire, and stood very straight, thrusting his hands under the lapels at his coat. “Stand where ye like, Mr. Gaunt,” he said. “Will not ask ye to sit, for some matters are best settled standing up.”