It was the first time for very long that he had touched on that old string. It was not by very many the last. The notion that I must bring home a wife, to 'keep things straight,' and to take care of Granny, had taken a strong hold upon him. If I was a fool, and would not marry Hildred, I must find just some one else; but he had far rather have her about the place than a stranger: he was used to the lass. In vain I told him that she cared for Cuthbert, and would not marry me. 'Just you ask her. A bird in hand's worth two in the bush any day. Tell her I'll be a father to her.' Once it might have been, not now. I could only try my best to prevent him from missing any of his comforts, and turn my hand to everything. But I was clumsy: the woman's work did not come easily. And now Cuthbert had been gone for more than two years. A second letter came from him some six months after the first. Since then we had heard nothing. Of course no one could expect to hear often from those out-of-the-way parts of the world. There were always plenty of good reasons to give Hildred, when she wondered, as she often did, why she never got a letter. But after months and months had passed away in silence, a thought of fear we did not like to face, which we tried to stifle and forget, began slowly to creep into our minds. It seemed as if the clouds grew thicker as the third winter of Cuthbert's absence darkened over us. My words of hope and reassurance lost the ring of truth: they did not comfort Hildred as they used to do. 'It's no good, Willie,' she would say. 'You can't make yourself believe it all.' No more I could. Even to my own ears my reasoning sounded hollow and unsatisfying. We knew that David Moore's wife had got a letter more than once since we had heard, but--it seemed strange, her husband never so much as mentioned Cuthbert's name. Whenever I could spare the time, which was not often, for it was a long and rough journey, I went over to the ferry, in the faint hope that they might have tidings for us. There was a sort of tie between us and this household, where also there was watching and waiting. They did not watch as we did. They had less uncertainty, and perhaps more patience. Moore's quiet little wife never lost her placid look for long together, even though one of the letters she received was written by a comrade of David's, to tell her that he was wounded and could not write himself. He bade his wife not take on, for he was getting better, and she believed, and obeyed him implicitly. As for the old father and mother, their daily comforts were their first thought. The draught that came from the kitchen window, and the fine crop of potatoes in the garden, occupied them full as much as any fears for David. The pity that Martha Clifford still bestowed on the poor Moores was wasted. As long as they had Elfrida to work for them, they wanted nothing else.