The sunlight moved from the bier, and up the oak-panelled walls and backward along the ceiling-beams until it vanished outright. Dusk came filtering through the lattices. A low stir of bees sounded from the garden, where corydalis and white arabis had newly opened to the spring. And still Wayne sat on, listening to the thousand voiceless rumours that creep up and down an empty house. "I cannot wipe out the stain, father," he went on, in a quieter voice; "but I will do all that is left to me—I’ll pluck Janet out of my heart—and there shall none say, for all my shamelessness, that I let the land go backward, though in old days you’ll remember there was no love spilt ’twixt me and farming matters. But the Wayne lands were always better-tilled than any in the moorside, and ’twould hurt you, father, if I let them grow foul and poor of crop.—Yet, for all that, ’tis easier to swear to hunt out every Ratcliffe from this to Lancashire," he added, with a whimsical straightforwardness which showed that a sense of fellowship with the dead had come to him through long watching by the bier. And then he let his thoughts drift idly and was near to falling into a doze when he was called to his feet by a tapping at the window. He crossed the floor and the light scarce sufficed to show him his step-mother’s face pressed close against the glass. "Open to me, Ned, open to me," she was crying. He went to the narrow door that led into the garden and opened it; and Mistress Wayne clung tight to him while he took her to the hearth—keeping her fast in talk the while, lest she should see what lay in the middle of the hall. "You are cold, little bairn," he said, using the same half-tender, half-scornful name he had given her at the vault-stone yesternight. "Yes, cold and weary, Ned—so weary! All night I wandered up and down the moor, seeking somebody—but I never found him—and the wind came, and the rain—and all about the moor were prying eyes—and strange birds called out of the darkness, and strange beasts answered them——" "Well, never heed them. Haply ’twas Shameless Wayne you sought, and he will see that none does you hurt." She put her face close to his and looked at him fixedly in the deepening gloom. A shaft of flame struck out at her from the hearth and showed a would-be alertness in the babyish eyes. "Yes, yes," she whispered. "I thought it was a lover I was seeking, a lover who had strong arms and tender words—but I was wrong—’twas thee I sought, Ned, all through the weary night—and I want nothing now that I have found thee—and—Ned, wilt keep the ghosties off?" "Every one, little bairn.—Now, see how stained your gown is with—with rain. I shall not love you at all if you do not run and change it before you come with me to supper."