“Sweetest sister, fear not!  Dost fear I could not protect thee from harm?  Believe me, thou hast a wondrous different brother now from the cowed and timorous lad who went forth from these doors but six short months back.  Fear not, my sister; look up, and let me see thy face.  I would learn how it has fared with thee since we parted that night on this very spot, though it now seems so long ago.”

Petronella heaved a long sigh, and her tremblings gradually ceased.  It seemed as though the brotherly clasp of those strong arms stilled her fears and brought comfort and soothing.  But as Cuthbert held her closely to him, it seemed to him almost as though he clasped a phantom form rather than one of solid flesh and blood.  There seemed nothing of the girl but skin and bone; and looking anxiously into the small oval face, he noted how wistful and hollow the great dark eyes had grown, and how pinched and worn every feature.  Had it always been so with her?  He scarce knew, for we heed little the aspect of those about us when we are young and inexperienced.

Petronella had always been somewhat shadowy and wan, had always been slight and slim and small.  But was she always as wan and slight as she now seemed? or did he observe it the more from the contrast it presented to Cherry’s blooming beauty, to which his eyes had grown used?  He asked the question anxiously of himself, but could not answer it.

Then drawing Petronella into the full light of the silver moon, he made her sit beside him on a fragment of mouldering wall, and holding her thin hands in a warm clasp, he scanned her face with glances of earnest scrutiny.

“My sister, hast thou been ill?”

She shook her head with a pathetic little smile.

“Alas, no!  Methinks I am a true Trevlyn for that.  Sickness passes me by and seizes upon others who might so much better be spared.”

“Why dost thou say ‘alas’ to that, sweet sister?”

“Verily because there be times when I would so gladly lay down my head never to lift it more.  For me death would be sweeter than life.  The dead rest in God’s peaceful keeping—­my good aunt at the Chase has told me so, and I no longer fear the scorching fires of purgatory.  I have a little New Testament now of my own, full of sweet promises and words of love and peace.  When I read of the pearly gates and the streets of gold, and the city into which nothing unholy may enter, I long sorely to leave behind this world of sin and sorrow and find a refuge there.

“But I would know more of thee, Cuthbert, and of what thou hast seen and done since thou hast left the Gate House.  For me I have naught to tell.  Life here is ever the same.  But thou must have done and seen so much.  May I not hear thy tale?  May I not learn how it has fared with thee?”