"Fond of them, are they, at Wildwater?" he cried. "My faith, Janet, ’tis a pretty reason to give a Wayne of Marsh.— Come, then, for as it chances I can help thee in thy search. The Hill House folk showed me their nesting place but yesterday, and it lies at a stone’s-throw above us yonder." He did not wait for her, but turned to climb the slope as if he guided her unwillingly. Janet followed him up the spur of moor that backed Hill House; and still she would not remember the Lean Man, nor what awaited her at Wildwater; her mind was set wholly upon winning Ned from this black mood of his, that he might hearken to her warning. The climb grew steeper, and Wayne, with tardy courtesy, took the girl’s hand to help her up the slippery clumps of bilberry. "What brings thee so near to a Wayne homestead?" he asked, pointing to the grim front of the house above. "Why should I fear? Our men folk fight, but none ever heard of one of your name waging war upon a woman." "That is a true word," muttered Wayne, and would have said more, but checked himself. "But the Ratcliffes have no such good repute? Nay! I know what was on thy tongue, Ned." Her face grew clouded, and a sudden, bitter cry escaped her. "Would God, dear lad, that it were different!" she cried. Wayne’s grasp tightened on her hand as he drew her half toward him. "There’s a quaking bog, Janet, lies ’twixt what a man would and what he will," he cried. "God’s life, girl, why must we always look askance at happiness?" The words were forced from him, and under them was such a ring of passion as Janet had hungered for during many a long day of misery and dread that she had lately spent at Wildwater. This was a glimpse of the Ned she loved—hot, and eager, and rebellious. She had given all to him—shame and love of kin; and she was justified, whatever followed after. She would force him to tell her the secret that showed plain enough in eyes and voice; and then, if his sternness came again, she would not heed it. "_We_ have no feud, Ned, thou and I," she said, in the voice that once before the quarrel ripened, he had been free to hearken to. For a moment he wavered, looking down at her. Behind her a sweep of blue leaned to the shoulders of the heath. The throstle’s note came low and mellow from below, and in the sun’s eye larks were singing wildly. Slim, warm and sweet she stood, a Ratcliffe and a maid. Shameless Wayne had fought this battle once before, and thought to have killed desire; yet the struggle when he had met her by the kirk-stone, weeks ago, was but the beginning of an uphill road. It was as Nell had said, not an hour since, and this thing called love had fifty ways of ambush for a man. "Hark ye, Janet," he said at last. "There shall no feud stand between us; ’twas of their making, and I love thy little finger better——" He freed her on the sudden; his eyes went out far across the moor, and into them there leaped a fierceness and a dread.