“I had not thought of it,” said Priscilla, turning her candid eyes on him again. “’Tis for you to settle such grave questions, I should think.”
Her laughter hurt him afresh; and, while he was seeking for a way to meet rebuffs he little liked, John Hirst came up the road. Hirst was not one to scowl at any time; but his thick brows came together when he reached the top of the rise and saw these two together.
“Crossing homeward by the fields, Priscilla?” he cried, in a voice that startled them like thunder out of a tranquil sky. “Well, so am I, and we’ll just gang together, lassie.”
“Morning, Mr. Hirst,” said Gaunt, soon as he had recovered from his surprise.
“Morning, Mr. Gaunt,” answered the other gruffly, opening the gate. “Come, Priscilla—we’ll go arm in arm, as your mother came from kirk with me more years ago than I remember.”
Priscilla felt a big hand grasp her arm, and found herself, with no time for a good-by to Reuben, moving quickly up the field-path at her father’s side.
“Well?” said the farmer, presently.
Priscilla did not answer, but released her arm, and set a little distance between them as they crossed the fields. She was angered that her father had shown discourtesy—a thing uncommon with him—to the man who had laid strange, vivid colours on the palette of her fancy.
“Oh, you’re out of temper with your dad,” said Hirst, a big laugh forcing its way, willy-nilly, through all his disquiet. “So was your mother, over and over again, before I brought her safely to kirk. Hearken to me, little lass. Oldish men are foolish men, they say, and forget their youth; but Billy the Fool talks wonderful sense, just time and time, so I may do it with safety, eh?”
He halted to stroke the flanks of the roan cow which David had lately saved, then stole a look at his daughter’s face, and found rebellion there.