They stayed awhile under the rowan, and Peggy touched its smooth trunk from time to time.
“I’m happy to-day,” she laughed, “just happy, Reuben. And I’m touching rowan-wood while I say it.”
There was a light in the kitchen of Ghyll Farm when they came across the croft, and at the porch-door they could see Widow Mathewson, her gaunt figure softened by the moonlight.
“So ye’ve been wi’ Gaunt? I guessed as mich,” was the mother’s greeting. There was little complaint in her tone, but her usual half-sad, half-bitter acceptance of the day’s troubles as they came.
Peggy was not contrite. “I’d finished the baking, mother, and I knew ye’d guess I was off to Linsall Fair. Mother, I never had such a day—and Reuben won the fell-race.”
“Ay, he would. Give him a bit o’ straight running for foolishness’ sake, an’ he’s clever; ’tis when ye want him to do summat wi’ sense at th’ back on’t that Gaunt fails ye—fails ye ivery time.”
“I want you to ask me indoors for once,” put in Reuben.
The widow looked at him curiously. Without emotion, as if she were counting up her egg money and finding the total right, she realized that there was a change for the better in him. His tone was grave, and he had lost his light, come-and-go air altogether.
“As ye please,” she answered, stepping aside to let him pass. “’Tis so late now for us early-to-bed folk that a bit later willun’t signify.”
In grim silence she brought cake and elderberry wine from the corner cupboard and set them on the table. Whether a guest was a welcome one or no, he must not leave without a show of hospitality.