Gaunt moved restlessly about the room, and the silence--broken by the little noise of Cilla’s movements overhead--did not help him to a more even frame of mind. But at least, he told himself, he had one ally here--Cilla herself. When she came down, and Yeoman Hirst heard from her own lips that she had plighted troth last night, he could talk to better advantage. Cilla did not keep them waiting overlong. She had no need to change her gown, but only to pour water into the ewer, and bathe her face, and bathe it over and over again; for she knew that her father hated all signs of tears, because they weakened him and loosed his steady grip on life. They heard her at the stair-head, the two men waiting below in enmity and silence; and then they heard the door-sneck rattle, and Cilla stood for a moment, looking across the candle-light to see who the guest might be. She faltered for a moment, seeing Reuben’s eyes fixed eagerly on hers; then she moved to the dresser and leaned against it, one hand pressed tight against the bosom of her dress, as her wont was always when she was troubled. “_You?_” she said faintly. That was all; but Hirst, blind in his faith that Priscilla could never stoop to such as Gaunt, interpreted her trouble as sheer disdain. “Best come to what we’ve got to say at once, Cilla,” he began. “Mr. Gaunt here said just now that you were going to wed him, and I said he was a liar. Which of us was right, lile lass?” Again Gaunt’s spirits fell. He had looked for silence--yes; but for silence of the happy, maidish sort that is afraid to tell its secrets. Priscilla of the Good Intent wore no such look; grave, and delicate, and soft her face was, but her eyes were full of misery. “You were right, both of you, father,” she said at last, “and both wrong. I am not going to marry Mr. Gaunt, but I promised to, yestre’en.” It was hard to say which of the men was more non-plussed. This slim maid, standing with the candle-light upon her face, had robbed them both of sure yet separate faiths. “Ye promised, Cilla?” said Hirst, reaching for the snuff-box on the mantel, and taking a pinch for habit’s sake. “Yes, I promised, father. But this morning I walked up by Little Beck Hollow, and I took my promise back.” Gaunt understood at last; and in his heart he cursed Peggy Mathewson, who had led him into this. The yeoman was hard hit, and hit in his weakest spot; yet he gathered his strength up somehow, and found a weakened echo of his usual laugh. “Second thoughts run safest, lass. Ye may have been a lile, daft fool yestre’en, but ye are wise to-day. Mr. Gaunt, is there aught more to be said?” “I fancy not. Good even to you,” said Reuben, with a desperate quiet. “I would like to see Mr. Gaunt to the door, father, and talk with him,” said Cilla unexpectedly.