Again the old note of reproof sounded in Nell’s voice. "I told Nanny Witherlee that thou didst not know, and I tried hard to think it, Ned—but how could it be? The gossips at the Bull must have told thee for whom the bell was ringing, for the news had long since spread through Marsh cotes." "They did tell me," began Shameless Wayne. "Ah, God!" murmured Nell, confessing how she had clung to the last shred of doubt. "And I thought they lied. I thought, Nell—’twas the fool drink in me—that Jonas and his cronies were minded to have the laugh of me by this lame tale of how Wayne of Marsh had come by his end. Think, lass! When there was no feud, and naught to give colour to a Ratcliffe sword-stroke—how could a head three-parts gone in liquor believe it true?" She, too, stopped and sought his eyes. "Ned, thou hast lived wild, but one thing I have never known thee do—thou dost not lie to save thy good repute. Wilt swear to me that thou knew’st naught of what had happened?" "By the Dog, or by any oath that holds a man," he said, and she knew that he spoke plain truth. "Why, then, ’twas thy ill fortune, dear, and we’ll look clear ahead, thou and I." "Yet the shame of it will cling, Nell. Wherever my name is spoken, there will some one throw mud at it. Whenever I see one man talking with his fellow, and mark how sudden a silence falls on them at my approach, I shall know that they were sneering at Shameless Wayne, who sat heels on table while his father’s soul wailed up and down the moorside crying for vengeance. The Ratcliffes will taunt me with it by and by." "And the taunt will stiffen thy arm, and blows will wipe out word," she cried, her voice clear and strong again.—"Dear, we have no smooth path to follow, but I give God thanks that ’twas drink, not thou, that played the renegade last night. It would have darkened all my love for thee, Ned, to know thee what I feared—ay, though I had fought it down with all my strength." Again he laughed mirthlessly. "Art so sure that I shall live sober henceforth?" he said. "Ay, am I! Dost think I’ve seen but the one side of thee through all these years? Thou wast alway better than thyself, Ned, and needed only a rough blow to bring thee to thy senses." He interrupted her, impatiently. "We’re growing womanish, and I had harder matters to talk of with thee. I’m four-and-twenty, Nell, and I have thee and four half-grown lads to fend for." "What, then? Are the Marsh lands so poor that we need cry for every penny spent, like cottage-folk?" said Nell, her old pride peeping out. "I had a wakeful night, lass, and things came home to me. A good farmer drives the work forward, and says little about it, and onlookers are apt to forget what fathering the land needs if ’tis to butter any bread." "But there’s Hiram Hey. He has worked at Marsh ever since I remember aught, and surely he will look to everything?"