"That is folly, lass. I have a sword, and I carry less risks than a maid would.—A rare holiday the men would have, my faith, if I left them to wash the sheep at their own good pleasure." "Take the lads with thee, then, if thou must go." "I promised them they should go hawking until dinner-time, and after that they must come up; but why spoil a morning’s pastime for them?" "The old tales fret at times," she answered gravely, "and to-night I’m sad a little, Ned, like thee. The washing-pools lie near to Wildwater, as thou say’st, and thou know’st how Waynes and Ratcliffes first fell out." "Tut! If I give heed to women’s fancies, when shall I find an hour to move abroad in? The Ratcliffes have got their fill for a good while to come, and they’ll keep well on the far side of the pools, I warrant. What, Mistress? Thy wanderings have brought thee supperless indoors," he broke off, as his step-mother opened the door softly and set down a basket of marsh-marigolds among the dishes and platters that cumbered the great dining-table. Nell rose with no word of greeting and left them; and Mistress Wayne, glancing in troubled fashion after her, crossed to the window and leaned against it. "I had better have stayed as I was, Ned," she said, smiling gravely. "Nell was growing kind—but that has passed now I have found my wits again." He winced; for he knew that he, too, had felt less kindliness toward her since her helplessness had gone. Looking at her now, frail against the mullioned casement, he could not but remember that it was she, in her right mind as she was now, who had fouled the good fame of his house. "Ay, and _thou_ hast a touch of her aloofness, too," she went on. "I can read it in thy face, Ned.—Listen. I’ve had in mind to tell thee something these days past, but have never found the words for it. I wronged thy father—but not as deeply as thou think’st. Ned! Canst not think what it meant to me—the dreariness, the cold, the hardness of this moorland life? And when Dick Ratcliffe came, and promised to take me out of it——" "See, Mistress, there’s naught to be gained by going over the old ground," he interrupted harshly. "But, Ned, there is much to be gained. Am I so rich in friends that I can let one as staunch as thou go lightly? Thou’rt midway between hate and love of me, I know, and if—Ned, if I were to tell thee I was less to blame—" She stopped and eyed him wistfully. It was not in Shameless Wayne to resist this sort of pleading from one who had shared with him the bitter months of disfavour and remorse. They had been comrades in adversity, he and she; and was he to turn on her now because she could no longer claim pity for her witlessness? "Thou need’st tell me naught, little bairn," he said.