“You want to know my business there?”
“No. Why should I need to know it? Perhaps you are going to buy another horse.”
“I’ll tell you my business on the way home, Cilla, because then I’ll know whether it is speeding well or not.”
Cilla’s eyes rested lightly on his, then danced away to the grey, far hills. The girl was a madcap this morning, and deserved to be; for she had many working days, but enjoyed few spendthrift days of holiday, with a green world and warm spring winds about her.
“As you will,” she answered. “For my part, I have father’s work to do.”
With a flourish, as if he carried great personages—Will was never so happy as when driving Cilla of the Good Intent—the coach drew up at Keta’s Well. There was an inn on the left hand of the grey, wide roadway, another on the right, and the two were so friendly, as it chanced, that Will baited and took his dinner at either hostelry upon alternate days.
Priscilla took Gaunt’s hand daintily, and clambered down into the roadway.
“We say good-by here?” she murmured, with a shy flush.
“Yes,” he answered, “until Will is ready to drive us home again.”
“Yet ’tis only a good walk to Garth for one as strong as you.”