"’Tis the one thing that none can lay plans against. Hark ye, Ned! Mistress Ratcliffe met thee by chance, I take it, and ye talked awhile together and then passed on. Thou wilt meet her again—to-morrow—and some trick of speech or eye will sweep thee off thy feet—and thou’lt wonder, having played with steel, that the sharp edge cuts thee to the bone." He flushed, and would not meet her glance. "If chance sends her across my path, I can help it as little as if a dozen of her kinsmen met me by the way—and, faith, the latter would prove more hazardous, I fancy. Shut thy mind to it once for all, Nell; I love her, and she’s naught to me, and there we’ll leave the riddle." Never until now had Nell complained, nor touched on her old devotion to him; but his open confession, twice repeated, jarred on her beyond endurance. "I’ve a right to speak, Ned," she cried. "I loved thee before this wanton crossed thy path; I have cared for thy comfort in fifty little ways thou know’st naught of. When father was hard on thee for thy wildness——" "I know, lass, I know," he muttered, his anger chilled. For remorse never slept so sound with Wayne of Marsh but that the lightest touch could wake it. "And later, when Rolf pleaded hard with me to wed him—he quarrelled with me but yesterday about it—I would not go, because thou hadst need of me at Marsh. See, Ned, I’ve been sorry and glad with thee—I’ve given up more, to keep thee out of wildness, than I shall ever tell. Is all to go for naught, because a woman beckons lightly to thee from across the moor?" "I have told thee," he said, and left her without another word. Old habit claimed her now. "Ned!" she called. "If thou must go to Hill House, promise thou’lt stray no further afield after thou hast done thy business there. The Ratcliffes are itching to be at thee, and——" "I’ll go no further," he answered over his shoulder; "and as for the Ratcliffes—they know how many Waynes are sheltered by Hill House; ’tis no likely hunting-ground for them." His mood was bitter as he crossed the brigg below Smithbank Farm and climbed the narrow stile that opened on to Hazel Dene. Nell had said hard things of Mistress Ratcliffe, and not all her care for him could wipe out the memory. Was Janet to be named wanton, because she had been born at Wildwater? It was unjust. Little by little her beauty took shape before him, to back his pleading with weightier arguments than his own poor wit could furnish; and all the while that same resistless breath of spring was blowing on him which up above was lightening Janet’s feet across the heath. There was a throstle in every thorn-bush and a merle on every alder, each singing hard against the other in harmony with the note of the south wind through the rush and the tinkle of water over smooth-worn stones. The corn-mill was busy with the hum of toil as he passed, and along the little strip of garden-path the miller’s wife was teaching her first-born child to walk.