“That’s true,” assented the driver cheerily, after due consideration of the point. “Be durned, David, ye’ve a gift o’ common sense. Thought I had the gift, too, till I took to looking for mulberry patches i’ honest people’s faces.”
When they neared Shepston, the smith turned for a last look at the hills raking up into the white-hot limestone glare that beat upon the dale he loved.
“’Tis good-by, I reckon, lile lass Cilla,” was his thought.
Reuben Gaunt had not joined the company that met to give David a farewell at the inn. With all his fickleness, he was not a liar, and he disdained to make a show of friendship, when he knew that there was open enmity. Instead, he remembered that it was Linsall Fair-day, and he walked up the moor to Ghyll Farm.
Gaunt found the farm-door open, and stepped in. Peggy Mathewson was busy baking bread, and she looked hot and tired. The heat of the kitchen, the smell of the loaves, drove Gaunt into the shelter of the porch again.
“Phew! I thought ’twould be cooler indoors than out, Peggy.”
“Did ye? My temper’s not cool, to begin with, Reuben—or should I say ‘Mr. Gaunt’ these days?”
“Reuben, I fancy.”
“I like to know. Ye change so often, and your station varies so—now marrying proud little Good Intent, and then again bending down to take notice o’ Peggy Mathewson—”
“I’ve a cure for your temper, Peggy,” he said, with an easy laugh. “We’ll go to Linsall, and your loaves can wait.”