“Gee-up, Captain,” he said. “I’ll bring it, bird cage, or eight-day clock, or what not, Widow, when the weather’s a shade milder.”
Cilla heard the running shuffle of hoofs on frozen snow as the mail went past Good Intent. She was sitting in the firelight, and Hirst, just returned from bringing sheep down to the fold, was dozing by the hearth.
“There’s the mail, father. ’Tis time we had a letter between us, surely.”
“Eh, lile lass?” he asked, rousing himself, as he always did, at the sound of Cilla’s voice.
“The mail has just passed. I was thinking a letter of some kind would be welcome.”
“Were ye, now? I could have understood that better if—well, if somebody had been away fro’ Garth instead of biding at home.”
Cilla winced under her father’s jovial pleasantry. She knew that he referred to Gaunt, and during these days of waiting and uncertainty she was sensitive to the least hint that they were free to care for each other.
“Oh, it is only that news from outside is pleasant, father, when the snow shuts us in for so long together.”
“Well, ye’ve got your wish,” said Hirst, rising lazily as a knock sounded on the outer door of the porch. “That’s Harry the Post, if I know a knock when I hear it.”
Cilla waited with a pleasant feeling of expectancy, as her father opened the door.