With a sense of trouble and foreboding Priscilla went to the window, which she had left open to the soft night wind not many hours ago. The low sill was an inch deep in snow. She looked out, and in the white, strong dawn-light saw nothing but whitened branches, whitened mistal-roofs, and flakes that fell persistently. She stood there awhile, watching the storm increase, listening to the wind which, quiet till now, began to whisper round the gables overhead. It was no playful shower, such as often came in late April, waiting only for the midday sun to banish it; yet, knowing the signs of weather as she did, hearing that note in the rising wind whose meaning was plain enough to all country folk, Priscilla felt no surprise. It was fitting. Spring, with its make-believe of primrose banks, and birds that litanied the sunshine, was a dream she had dreamed in company with Reuben Gaunt. That had passed, and hard winter had set in again. She was glad that it was so. Winter was a time of stress and hardship, that left no leisure for dreams. Better the snow than the soft air of an April gloaming, when all the tribes of furred and feathered things went wooing and set the like key-note for more sober human-folk. Priscilla turned to the ewer, with quick change of mood. She blamed herself for those few moments at the window. There would be real work ready to her hand below stairs before this storm was ended. The chill of the water heartened her, and afterwards she did not halt to choose between the blue gown and the lilac. She donned instead a rough, short-skirted gown of homespun, and went down to the house-place. Her father was standing in front of the fire, which Susan, the farm maid, had newly lit, and the yeoman’s face was grave. “Thought thou wert never coming, lass,” he growled, trying to find his usual good temper. “You know there’s a lamb-storm blowing up behind all this bonnie snow?” “Yes, father--yes, I know, I’m ready.” “Ay, but is breakfast? Susan is young, and late--and you are young and late, lile Cilla--you’d do without your breakfasts, both of you, but old folk don’t start the day on an empty stomach, lass.” Susan came in at the moment with a dish of steaming bacon, set round about with eggs, and the farmer sat down to it with the impatience of a man who is thinking only of his work and of the need to find sustenance for the day’s battle. Cilla poured out the tea for him, brought it to his elbow, ruffled her hand across his thick, grey hair. “The lambs are needing you, father. Let me come up with you into the fields.” “You? You’ve work enough, lile lass, when we bring the lamblings down into the fold.” “But not till then, father. Let me go with you. I shall be restless, else.” Hirst had all but finished half the dish of bacon, and three eggs to go with it. He felt ready for the day’s work, and, as the way of a true man is, his temper gained in cheeriness.