Wayne sat up late after supper that night, turning the news over in his mind and wondering if it were true. Dusk was stealing downward from the moor, but the storm-red of sunset lingered yet, and the ghostliness which crept about Marsh o’ nights had more unrest in it than usual, as if the darkness that it craved were falling over slowly. The Master had the old house to himself: Mistress Wayne was in her chamber; the maids were gone to Rushbearing Feast; the four lads, despite the broken weather, had followed the chase all day and were not yet returned. "So the Lean Man is dying," mused Wayne, his eyes on the slumbering peats. "Ay, there’s likelihood in Hiram’s gossip. ’Tis a marvel he has lived so long, after the storm that palsied him.—Well, God knows I’d liefer the lightning had done the work than I." The silence of the house crept softly over him, as he sat on and on, thinking now of Janet, now of his sister, and again of the feud that still lay smouldering until one side or the other should stir it into life again. A sudden weariness of it came to him. Must they fight everlastingly, till either Waynes or Ratcliffes had been swept from off the moorside? The Lean Man’s death would free Janet of the only tie that bound her to Wildwater; would it bring her folk likewise nearer to the thought of friendliness? "God grant it may," muttered Wayne. And then he glanced across the hall, toward where his father had lain upon the bier awaiting burial—where he himself had stood and sworn above the body that he would never rest from killing. The tumult of the past months rolled back; he saw again the quiet face of the dead; he felt anew the bitter hate that had informed his vow. Was he to draw back now, because the one sweeping fight had given his stomach food enough? Nay, for his oath held him, now as then; and, now as then, he must be ready at all hours to carry on the old traditions. While he sat there, his head between his hands, with the peats dropping noiseless into light heaps of ash, the door opened and Mistress Wayne crept into hall. Her hair was loosened; her bare feet peeped from under her night-gear; and a man, to look at her, would have named her the bonniest child that ever stood far off from womanhood. She stood for awhile regarding the quiet figure by the hearth, then came to him and rested both hands lightly on his shoulders. "Why, bairn, I thought thou wast asleep," said Wayne, starting from his reverie. "I could not sleep, Ned. Each time I closed my eyes the dreams flocked round me." He took her hands in his and drew her gently down. "Dreams? Come tell them to me, little one," he said. She crept still closer to him, shivering as with cold. "Ned, I saw thy father as he lay in hall here, long ago—saw his still look, and the candle-shadows slanted by the wind across his face."