"Ay, it ’ull be a staunch un," said Nanny. "Tha’d best come indoors, Witherlee, afore it breaks—for when it does break, buckets willun’t hod th’ drops, an’ tha’ll be drenched i’ crossing th’ kirkyard.—Why, there’s Mistress Wayne. If iver I see’d a body choose unlikely times, it’s yond little bit o’ sugar an’ spice." Witherlee glanced eagerly down the graveyard path. "Now, that’s strange," he murmured. "I war nobbut saying afore tha comed, Nanny, that I hedn’t bed speech of her this mony a day—an’ here she comes. Eh, but she’s a sight for sore een, is th’ bonnie bairn!" Nanny’s half-religious awe of Mistress Wayne was disappearing now that she had come to her right mind again. "Nay," she grumbled, "I reckon nowt so mich on her. She war bahn to do a deal for th’ Maister, so I thowt; but what’s comed on ’t? Nowt, save ’at she carried a fond tale to Mistress Nell a while back, an’ all but brought her into ruin.—Now, lad, art minded to get out o’ th’ wet that’s coming?" "Nay, I’ll step indoors by an’ by, for I’m fain of a crack wi’ th’ little Mistress at all times." Nanny glanced shrewdly at her husband; something in his voice—a weariness that was at once helpless and resigned—brought an unwonted pity for him to the front. Impatient she was with him at most times; but under all her fretfulness there was a sure remembrance of the days that had been. "Luke," she said, laying a hand on his sleeve, "tha’rt nobbut poorly, I fear me. Stop for a word wi’ Mistress Wayne, if needs must, but don’t stand cracking till tha’rt wet to th’ bone." "Nay, I’ll noan stay long, lass—noan stay long," he murmured. Nanny moved down toward her cottage, and the Sexton, sighing contentedly, gave a good-day to Mistress Wayne while yet she was half up the path. "Ye’ve not been nigh me lately, Mistress," he murmured, making room for her on the grave-stone which had grown to be their wonted seat. "I have been restless, Sexton, and my walks have taken me far a-field. But to-day I’m tired, and full of fancies, and I thought ’twould be pleasant to sit beside thee here and talk." "To be sure, to be sure. Ye’re looking poorly-like, an’ all; it ’ull be this heavy weather, for I feel that low i’ sperrits myseln——" "’Tis more than the weather," she interrupted, turning her grave child’s eyes on his. "The mists begin to come down again, Sexton, as they did when my lover was killed yonder on the vault-stone. Sometimes I can see men and women as thou see’st them; and then a mist steals over them, and they are only shadows, and the ghosts creep out of the moor, moving real among the unreal men and women." "That’s nobbut th’ second-sight," said Witherlee gently. "I’ve getten it, an’ ye’ve getten it, Mistress, an’ we’ve to pay our price for ’t. But it’s nowt to fret yourseln about."