"If men, such as you and Marydrew, still think well of it, I don't say but what I might slip back again to some quiet spot," he said. "I shouldn't feel that I'd got any right, exactly, to thrust in again among folk—such a thing as I've grown to be; but if it was only for William's sake, I'd come. He always held out that I'd be saved for some usefulness, and I'd like to make good his words."
"Come then," urged Winter, "don't go back on it."
"I'm a thought clearer sighted than I have been, Adam, and more patient. How's Samuel? I understand him now so well as you do yourself."
They talked of common interests, but Bullstone grew restless as the sun went westerly, and he did not seek to stay his guest when the farmer rose to return.
"I've got everything in fine fettle for her—for Auna," he explained. "She's coming back from her sea-faring to-day. Peter goes in for her and she'll walk along alone from Shipley, and the boy will be up with her box to-morrow morning. The moor's in a cheerful mind to-night, but I dread to hear her say she likes the sea better."
"No fear of that while you kennel up here. But I hope we shall have you both down before autumn."
"Yes, faith, I shall creep down."
They left Huntingdon together, Jacob walking by Winter's horse for two miles. They parted, then, in the gracious glow of evening, and the elder sat upon a shelf of rock and waited. Far beneath him the sun fires lingered over the pavilions of a larch grove and warmed the young green to gold. The untiring cuckoo called a while, then grew silent as twilight stole delicately over all things and detail died.
He saw Auna at last—slim and swift, ascending on quick feet. And then she had come, put her arms round his neck, kissed him, and looked into his eyes with the warmth of her steadfast worship.
"Is your soul quiet now, dear father?" she asked; and he replied: