“Ay,” answered the other quietly. “A man may always—but I cannot see ye doing it, Reuben, somehow.”
“I had so much to tell you,” he said, after another silence. “I wanted—”
“Oh, I dare say, Reuben. Wanted to patch up the road ye’ve fouled behind ye, afore taking to the smooth road ready-made in front? Eh, but you must be a fool to the marrow, after all! Dress all in your good clothes, if it pleases ye, and put on a Sabbath face for other folk—but, for mercy’s sake, don’t come to Peggy Mathewson after that fashion. Going to lead the good life, are ye? Well, what of me?”
There was no soft wind blowing here at Ghyll Farm, as it had blown last night all down Garth Valley. For the second time this morning Gaunt saw the simple, candid picture of himself.
“You were crying last night, Peggy. I looked for a softer welcome,” he said, blurting out his thoughts as a child might have done.
“Oh, and was I? Who told ye that?”
“I fell in with Mrs. Mathewson as I rode up here. Besides, I can see it in your eyes.”
“Has she found the sheep?” said Peggy, with desperate pretence to ward off the graver issue.
“I found them for her. Say, Peggy, what were you crying for?”
Peggy thought of the heart-break that had been her mate last night “Crying for a lad ye’ll never know, Reuben,” she answered.