As she hurried to the tryst that evening, this fear was only second
to the bitter thought of parting with Cuthbert. Yet she did not
wish him to stay. Her father's wrath and suspicion once fully
aroused, no peace could be hoped for or looked for. Terribly as she
would miss him, anything was better than such scenes as the one of
today. Cuthbert was no longer a child; he was beginning to think
and reason and act for himself. It was better he should fly before
worse had happened; only the girl could not but wonder what her own
life would be like if, after his departing, her stern father should
absolutely forbid her seeing or speaking to her cousins again.

She knew he would gladly do it; knew that he hated and grudged the
few meetings and greetings that did pass between them from time to
time. Any excuse would gladly be caught at as a pretext for an
absolute prohibition of such small overtures, and what would life
be like, she wondered with a little sob, if she were to lose
Cuthbert, and never to see Philip?

Her brother was at the trysting place first. She could not see his
face, but could distinguish the slight figure seated upon the
crumbling fragment of the wall. He was very still and quiet, and
she paused as she drew near, wondering if he had not heard her
light footfall upon the fallen leaves.

"Is that thou, my sister?" asked a familiar voice, though feeble
and hollow in its tones. The girl sprang quickly to his side.

"Yes, Cuthbert, it is I; and I have brought all thou biddest me,
and as much beside as I could make shift to carry. Alack, Cuthbert
are you sorely hurt? I heard that cruel whip!"