the youth approached the gray walls of the old Gate House. How grim
and hoary it looked in the white moonlight! Something of a faint
shiver of repulsion ran through Cuthbert's frame as he looked upon
the familiar outline of the building. Was it possible that all but
the few last months of his life had been spent there? It seemed to
him that the old life was already like a dim and distant dream, and
that the fuller life he had enjoyed since leaving was the only one
that had any reality about it.

But he well knew the habits and the sullen ferocity of the grim old
man his father, and it was with cautious steps that he approached
the walls. No light burned in any window. The inmates of the
building were doubtless wrapped in sleep. He well knew his sister's
window, and cutting himself a long hazel bough, he gently swept it
to and fro across the glass. This had always been a signal between
them in their childhood, and many had been their nocturnal rambles
taken together when Cuthbert had contrived to escape from the house
before it was locked up, and had then called Petronella and
assisted her down by the tangled ivy that clung to the gray old
walls. He knew she would recognize in a moment who was outside when
she heard the tapping of that hazel wand; and it seemed indeed as
if she did, for in a moment the window was opened, and a soft
tremulous voice asked eagerly:

"Cuthbert, can it be thou?"

"It is indeed I, sweet sister. Canst thou come to me? Hast thou
lost thy cunning or thy lightness of foot? I am here to help thee."

"I will come to thee anon; but the little postern door is seldom