"Now, whisht ye, mistress! Your sweetheart’s safe, as ye can hear, an’ he’ll be in by an’ by—he’s coming now, an’ ye’ll noan want me, dearie, when he’s by to comfort ye. I’ll waken th’ wenches, an’ then I mun lig me down awhile, for there’s a lot needs seeing to this day." Nell stood there idly until the old woman’s steps were lost among the restless echoes of the house. On a sudden the main door was thrown open, and Shameless Wayne came in alone. "Why did not Rolf stay?" asked Nell. "Because I gave him a message for his folk at Cranshaw. Nay, I cannot tell thee what it was; ’twould only scare thee. —Come, Nell! I, too, have to get to saddle, and I fear to leave thee with such misery in thy face. Where are the lads?" "Abed yet—wearied with their hunting." "They must not come to the kirkyard. Bid them keep close to home till we return." "But, Ned, why should they keep away?" the girl began. He stopped her, with the quiet, forceful air that she was learning to obey. "Because I bid them," he said, and kissed her lightly on the cheek, and went out to the stables. Nell crossed to the bier, where her father lay heedless of the storm and fret that his death had brought to old Marsh House. She sat her down, and put her face between her hands, and let her thoughts go drifting down the pathway of the years. From time to time the maids came in and busied themselves with setting out the table for the feast that would follow the old master’s burial in a few hours’ time; but the master’s daughter seemed to heed them as little as himself. She thought of her brother, wondering at the change in him, yet doubting that the old wildness would return soon as the first keen smart of shame was softened; she thought of Mistress Wayne, who was a guest here in the house which she had dishonoured in all men’s eyes; and then again she remembered what had chanced in Marshcotes kirkyard, and told herself that surely a twelvemonth had hurried by since she went up to the belfry-tower with a knife close hidden under her cloak. Not two days ago she had watched the life ebb fast and red from the wound in her father’s back, while his murderer looked on and laughed; and now he was ready for the grave; and in between there had seemed no rest from the hurry of events. Dick Ratcliffe had paid his price; one of the Cranshaw Waynes had fallen at the Lean Man’s hand; the old feud-token had been nailed over the Marsh doorway; and under all the present misery—the grief and fret and long-drawn-out restlessness that wait on burial—was the overshadowing sense of tragedy to come. To-day they would lay their dead to rest; and then the smouldering embers of the feud would leap to flame; and after that no man nor woman of them all could count a day safe won through till it was done, and men’s lives and women’s honour would be no more than straws upon the fast-racing stream of chance.