“Ay, ’tis true. Not yet awhile, for a week or two; for my roots are here, ye see, Priscilla, and I’m frightened-like to tear ’em out. So I’m telling myself I’ve a job here and a job there that must be done; and I’m making a few bits o’ business that weren’t there before; but I’m going from Garth, soon as I’ve settled my heart into its place.” “Oh, I shall miss you, David!” she said unthinkingly. David the Smith laughed sadly. “Well, that’s somewhat to the good, at any rate. Would be a poor business, eh, if a man could fare out to heathen parts, and never be missed in the old home-place?” The night, with its clouded moon, its restless wind that rose uncertainly and fell again, was like a mirror to Priscilla’s humour. She was impatient of David’s quiet acceptance of matters; perhaps, had he stolen now into the porch and lost his diffidence, he would have had no further right, or leave, to go away from Garth. But David had seen what he had seen, and his faith that Cilla meant to marry Reuben Gaunt was as sure as hers had been as regarded Peggy Mathewson. And so, because guile was far from both of them, David said good night and went his way, while Cilla could scarcely check the impulse to cry once again: “David--David, come back.” She gave a last glance at the street, wondering what her life would be in coming days; then went indoors, to meet her father and go through with all the talk and explanation which she knew awaited her. The look of the house-place chilled her as she entered. The fire was out. No friendly horn of ale rested at her father’s elbow; he was not smoking even, but was sitting with his hands upon his knees, his head a little bent, his shoulders not so square as she was wont to see them. The two candles threw no cheerful light, and they were guttering now in the sudden draught that came through the open doorway. “I’ll light the lamp, father,” said Cilla, with faint-hearted bustle. “Shame on me--the lamp unlit, and none to draw your ale for you--and--daddy, won’t you fill your pipe?” “Was dreaming, lile Cilla--just dreaming, I. Fill my pipe? To be sure, I’d quite forgotten it. Ay, light the lamp, lile lass; I miss ye, somehow, when ye’re not about.” She brought his pipe, his tobacco-box; she lit the lamp, and fetched a measure of ale and set it at his elbow; it took the keen edge from her dreariness to minister to the wants of Yeoman Hirst. “See ye now, Cilla,” he began, puffing fiercely at his pipe, “I want to know a few odd whys and wherefores. Ye know my view of Reuben Gaunt? Is’t sober truth that ye were foolish with him yesternight?” “Yes, father.” She was sitting opposite him across the hearth, and her troubled eyes met his without fear or secrecy. “I thought we loved each other, and I promised myself to him.” “God, ye rate yourself cheaper than I do, Cilla! There, lile lass, there! I didn’t mean to be harsh! Well, then, what chanced to alter you?”