"Yond's your father's eldest-born, I'll warrant," said Nanny, jerking her thumb over her shoulder; "'tis like he's home again, Mistress, for there's no voice like Shameless Wayne's to sing strong liquor down 's throit."
The girl winced. "Let him be Shameless Wayne to the gossips, Nanny; is't thy place to judge him?" she flashed.
"Nawther mine nor yourn, dearie—'tis only that my heart cries out for ye, being left so lonely-like; an' pity allus crisps my tongue. Shall I slip me dahn to th' Bull, an' whisper i' th' lad's ear? Happen he knaws nowt o' what's chanced at Marsh."
"Nor will know, even if 'tis he, till the morning clears his wits. Hark ye, Nanny, women have done such things aforetime, and my arm is strong."
The little old woman went on with her knitting, and still the bell rope creaked at its wonted intervals; but there was a change in the ringer's face—a brightness of the eye, a quiver of the shrunken body. She read the girl's purpose aright.
"Will it not serve?" went on Nell, slipping her hand from under her cloak and conning the ringer's face eagerly.
Nanny took the dagger, and ran her fingers along its edge, muttering to herself in a curious key. "Who is't?" she asked.
"Dick Ratcliffe. Oh, 'twas a gallant fight! We have killed the Ratcliffes more than once or twice, in the old days before the feud was healed—but we struck fair. Nanny, he struck from behind! It was gathering dusk, and I had just put fresh peats on the fire and turned to the window to look out for father's coming."
"An' hed fetched his snuff-box for him, an' laid it dahn by th' settle-corner, as ye used to do i' th' owd days," murmured Nanny.
"Hush, nurse! Oh, hush! I must not think of—of the old days."