“Yes, father.”
“Well, be durned if I’d have done it.”
“Oh, yes; oh, indeed, you would have done it, father; ’tis the sort of call you’d have answered, but it was not asked of you.”
“Fiddle-de-dee,” said the yeoman. “Black Fever would always scare me. Give me a runaway horse, and I’ll handle the reins—but the fever—’tis a waiting game, lile Cilla, and I could never play such. I’ve a sort of envy, like, for men who can.”
Priscilla lit a spill for his pipe. She filled his glass for him, and set it by his side. And then she waited.
“Seems I’ve treated Gaunt amiss,” said her father by and by.
“All folk do in Garth.”
“Ay, they did; but I was down i’ Shepston to-day, and they had the news, and folk were puzzled. They fancied that Gaunt was better nor like—in fact, Cilla, they seemed minded to turn their faces about and overdo their praising of him.”
Cilla spread her hands to the peat-glow, and her face was full of tenderness. “I told you so i’ the spring, father, but you would not listen.”
The yeoman was uneasy. Praise was due to Gaunt, and yet he distrusted the man. “He comes of a bad breed, Cilla, and I’m farmer enough to know that ye don’t rear good stock from such.”