“Ay, I know,” answered Reuben; “I will tell thee anon, sweet mistress, if thou wilt let me into thy presence.”

“Nay, call me not mistress,” said Gertrude, with a little accent of reproach in her voice.  “Have we not played as brother and sister together, and do not times like this draw closer the bonds of friendship?  Thou canst not know how lonesome and dreary my life has been of late.  I pine for a voice from the world without.  Thou wilt indeed be welcome, good Reuben.”

Gertrude was busying herself with the tedious preparations for obtaining a light, and being skilful by long practice, she soon had a lamp burning in the room; and in a few minutes more, by the diligent use of hammer and chisel, Reuben forced open the little rough door which long ago had been contrived between the boys of the two households, and which had not been done away with altogether, although it had been securely fastened up by the orders of Madam Mason when she found her son Frederick taking too great advantage of this extra means of egress from the house, though she had other motives than the one alleged for the checking of the great intimacy which was growing up between her children and those of her neighbour.

The door once opened, Reuben quickly stood within the attic, and looked around him with wondering and admiring eyes.

“Nay, but it is a very bower of beauty!” he cried, and then he came forward almost timidly and took Gertrude by the hand, looking down at her with eyes that spoke eloquently.

“Is this thy nest, thou pretty songbird?” he said.  “Had I known, I should scarce have dared to invade it so boldly.”

Gertrude clung to him with an involuntary appeal for protection that stirred all the manhood within him.

“Ah, Reuben, tell me what it all means!” she cried, “for methinks that something terrible has happened.”

Still holding the little trembling hand in his, Reuben told her of the peril her brother had been in.  He spoke not of Dorcas, not desiring to pain her more than need be, but he had to say that her brother was, in a half-drunken state, pursuing some maiden in idle sport, and that, having been so exposed to contagion, there was great fear now for him and for his life.

Gertrude listened with pale lips and dilating eyes; her quick apprehension filled up more of the details than Reuben desired.

“It was Dorcas he was pursuing,” she cried, recoiling and putting up her hands to her face; “I know it!  I know it!  O wretched boy! why does he cover us with shame like this?  I marvel that thou canst look kindly upon me, Reuben.  Am I not his most unhappy sister?”

“Thou art the sweetest, purest maiden my eyes ever beheld,” answered Reuben, his words seeming to leap from his lips against his own will.  Then commanding himself, he added more quietly, “But he is like to be punished for his sins, and it may be the lesson learned will be of use to him all his life.  It will be a marvel if he escapes the distemper, having been so exposed, and that whilst inflamed by drink, which, so far as I may judge, enfeebles the tissues, and causes a man to fall a victim far quicker than if he had been sober, and a temperate liver.”