But he had scant time for counting troubles during the weeks that followed. The grass was ready for the scythe in every meadow, and he was busy day-long with the work of getting it cut and ready for the hay-mows. The weather—rainy, with only now and then a day or two of sun between—doubled the labour of hay-winning; for no sooner was it cocked and all but ready for the leading, than the rain came down once more, and again the smoking heaps had to be spread abroad over the sodden fields. The work was ceaseless, and Wayne of Marsh took so tired a head to pillow every night that sleep fell on him before he could hark back to the tangled issues of the feud. Yet every now and then he found time to stop amid his labours and to tell himself that, spite of all Nell had to say, he was glad to have kept his hand from the Lean Man that day upon the moor. It had been easy to fight with Nicholas Ratcliffe in hot blood; but he had conquered him, and that was enough; and Janet would have given him less than thanks if he had killed the only one among her folk who claimed her love. Another matter he learned, too, and one that irked him sorely. Heretofore he had gone about the fields with no fear of danger, but rather with a welcome for it; but ever since the night when Janet had come down to Marsh and given herself to him, he had grown tender of his skin—had halted before going out, and had wondered if sundown would find him still unharmed. Some day, perchance, he would confess as much to Janet if she came to need proof of his passion for her; but the knowledge of it was very bitter to him now, and, even as he crushed it down, he mocked himself for feeling it. The days wore on until at last the hay was all won in, and the farm-folk paused for breath before the corn should be ready for harvesting; and all the while Wayne’s friendship with his step-mother grew deeper and more intimate. Often, when his brothers were out with hawks or dogs, she was his only companion at the supper-board; and afterward she would sit beside him while he drank his wine, talking and watching the fire which burned on the great hearth-place the year through. Mistress Wayne showed even frailer than of yore; she clung more closely to Ned, with more of the dumb pleading in her eyes; and his pity deepened as he saw that she was slowly drifting back to witlessness. Three weeks had passed since the Lean Man had fought with Shameless Wayne, and it was whispered up and down the moorside that Nicholas Ratcliffe was near his end. None knew how the rumour had arisen, but some traced it to gossip of the Wildwater farm-men; and Earnshaw, who had caught a chance sight of Nicholas on the morning after the storm, vowed that he had never seen a man shrivel so in the space of one short day. Nanny Witherlee had the news from Bet the slattern, and she passed it on in turn to Hiram Hey, who carried it to the Master on the very morning that saw the last of the hay safely housed.