The wind had risen yet higher; it blew an icy blast from behind him as he cantered home. Through the hazy atmosphere a cloud of dun, vaporish red could be seen trailing over the dim fells. It poised above the ball crown of the Eel Crags like a huge supernatural bird with outstretched wings. Hugh held the reins with half-frozen hands. He barely felt the biting cold. His soul was in a tumult, and he was driven on by fears that were all but insupportable. For months a thick veil had overspread his conscience, and now, in an instant, and by an accident, it was being rent asunder. He had lulled his soul to sleep. But no opiate of sophistry could keep the soul from waking. His soul was waking now. He began to suspect that he had been acting like a scoundrel. At the vicarage he stopped, dismounted, and entered. Standing in the hall, he overheard voices in the kitchen. They were those of Brother Peter and little Jacob Berry, the tailor, who had been hired to sew by the day, and was seated on the dresser. "I've heard of such sights afore," the little tailor was saying. "When auld Mother Langdale's son was killed at wrustlin' down Borrowdale way, and Mother Langdale was abed with rheumatis, she saw him come to the bed-head a-dripping wet with blood, as plain as plain could be, and in less nor an hour after they brought him home to the auld body on a shutter--they did, for sure." "Shaf on sec stories! I don't know as some folks aren't as daft as Mother Langdale herself!" Peter muttered in reply. Hugh Ritson beat the door heavily with his riding-whip. "Parson Christian at home now?" he asked, when Peter opened it. "Been and gone," said Peter. "Did you tell him I meant to come back?" "Don't know as I did." Hugh's whip came down impatiently on his leggins. "Do you know anything?" he asked. "Do you know that you are now talking to a gentleman?" "Don't know as I do," mumbled Peter, backing in again. "If Miss Greta is at home tell her I should be glad to speak with her--do you hear?" Peter disappeared. Hugh was left alone in the hall. He waited some minutes, thinking that Peter was carrying his message. Presently he overheard that worthy reopening the discussion on Mother Langdale's sanity with little Jacob in the kitchen. The deep damnation he desired just then for Brother Peter was about to be indicated by another lusty rap on the kitchen door, when the door of the parlor opened, and Greta herself stood on the threshold with a smile and an outstretched hand. "I thought it was your voice," she said, and led the way in. "Your cordial welcome heaps coals of fire on my head, Greta. I cannot forget in what spirit we last talked and parted." "Let us think no more about it," said Greta, and she drew a chair for him to the fire. He remained standing, and as if benumbed by strong feeling. "I have come to speak of it--to ask pardon for it--I was in the wrong," he said, falteringly.