“Cilla!” he said, in a low voice.
She started, and let the iron fall, and did not heed that it was burning the lilac frock—the gown which, so short a while since as this year’s spring, had pleased Reuben Gaunt. They stood there—David on the threshold, Cilla at the table—and they looked at each other in silence, asking some big question.
“You may come in, David,” she said at last.
He came and stood beside her, took up the iron and set it on its stand, with the instinct of a good workman.
“The lilac gown is burned, Priscilla.”
“It has served its time, David. Did you come to Good Intent just to tell me I was careless with my ironing?”
“No, I didn’t, Cilla.” The smith had grown resolute again. “I came to tell you that I’m sailing Tuesday o’ next week for Canada.”
She was stunned for the moment. David had seen her bonnie since he knew her first, but never bonnie as she was just now, with the sunlight on her drooping head, her fingers plucking at the scissors in her girdle.
“I’ve ta’en time to make up my mind, I own,” he went on stubbornly, “but ’tis made up now. My aunt Joanna, overseas yonder, is a lile bit like Widow Lister—she’s helpless without the good man she nagged into his grave, and she willun’t take no fro’ me. She’s fonder o’ nephew David these days than ever she was when she had him close under her hand. She wants somewhat done for her, ye see.”
Cilla glanced up at him, then down again. “What—what has made you in such haste to leave, David?”