Hiram was quiet for a space, and the Master could see a laughable air of doubt steal into his face as he ruffled the frill of hair that framed his smooth-shaved chin. "An’ then," put in Martha softly, "there’s even a quieter spot nor yond that mud varry weel be mine for th’ axing." Hiram Hey ceased doubting. "What, dost mean that owd fooil Jose wod like to tak thee to th’ wind-riven barn he calls a house?" "Summat o’ th’ sort, Hiram—ay, he’d be fain, wod shepherd Jose. An’ if th’ house be i’ a wildish spot—well, ’tis farther out o’ harm’s way." "That sattles it. Wilt wed me afore th’ corn ripens, lass, an’ come to yond snug bigging dahn i’ th’ hollow?" "I reckon I will, lad. Why didst not axe me plain afore?" Then Hiram kissed her, under the left ear; and the Master, forgetting that they did not count upon a listener, laughed outright. Martha turned, with cheeks aflame like the peonies newly-opened in the garden place behind her; and Hiram lost his calmness for the moment. "Thou dost well, Hiram," said the Master drily. "Love while thou canst, for thou’d’st better make the most of what few years are left thee." Hiram took the stroke staunchly, knowing it was the return-thrust for many a home-blow he had given Wayne. "An’ so I bed, Maister," he answered, not shifting a muscle of his face—"by wedding one that counts no red folk i’ her family." The Lean Man and Janet had been riding slowly home while Wayne sat listening to the shepherds’ gossip; and as they went up Barguest Lane Nicholas had bent toward his grand-daughter with more than his wonted tenderness. "Janet, girl, ’tis good to know thou’rt safe again," he said. "What would Wildwater be without thee?" She did not answer, but turned her head away a little; and so they rode on in silence until they reached the open moor. The old man shivered then, and glanced behind with the quick gesture she had learned to know. "I had forgotten it," he muttered.—"Didst hear aught in the wind, Janet?" "I heard a moor-bird calling, sir, and the rustle of dry heather-stalks." "Naught else? No sound, say, of a hound baying down the lane?" "There’s a farm-dog barking at the moon; that is all." He straightened in the saddle. "To be sure! When a fool is old, he’s past praying for, eh, girl? Yet—is yond brown shadow going to fare to Wildwater with us?" "So long as there’s a moon to cast it, sir." Another silence, while a mile of heath slipped underneath their hoofs. "They bade me keep Nell Wayne, and let thee take thy chance," said Nicholas presently. "Think of it, Janet! To wake in the morning and have no slip of sunshine like thyself to come down to." "Grandfather, it—it hurts me to hear you praise me so." "Why, what ails thee? Cannot I praise the one thing on God’s earth that I love, without hurting thee?"