As winter stepped through March gales to springtime, and the fells were white with lambs newborn, Hardcastle took a lusty hold of life. The lean years had gone out of mind. The only thought he gave Garsykes was a warning to Causleen not to roam abroad without him.
She had little need. On horseback or afoot they were together constantly; and, as he taught her the lore of ancient lands and storied bridle-tracks, she lit his heritage with new, fresh wonder, as of dawn after a long night’s tempest.
Closer they came together, and closer, as the spring advanced and cowslips nodded in the meadow-grass. Sometimes Hardcastle would fall silent, afraid almost of his joy in living; and her hand would slip through his arm.
“What is it, Dick?” she would ask.
“Half of me has come back,” he would answer, smiling down at her—“the half that’s been missing all these years.”
Rebecca, too, was in better heart. Jealousy yielded by degrees to a new, enthralling hope. As she baked, and scrubbed, and churned, a little song would creep into her mind, and stay there. Logie might have an heir at last. And she would dandle him on knees hard-worn in Logie’s service.
When June was well in, and the meadows growing strong for the scything-time, Shepherd Brant stumped into Rebecca’s kitchen one morning and sat him down.
“Well?” she snapped. “What’s wrong this time? I’d as little expect to see thee without thy shadow, Brant, as without a grievance.”
“What’s wrong? Why, Garsykes. It’s humming like a hornets’ nest again, they say.”
“I guessed as much. Jonah gives me less of his company these days, and sits a lot in the under-stairs cupboard. So I know Storm’s there.”