Cuthbert was willing enough to outpour his story to her, sitting beside her in the old chantry, where so many happy hours of their shadowed childhood had been spent.  He told of his adventures by the way, of his night with the gipsies, of his timely rescue of Cherry and his admittance to his uncle’s house.  He told of his uncle’s wonderful story of the gold that was to be all for his sister; told of the life at the bridge house, and his attachment to his cousin Cherry.  The only matter he named not was that of his meeting with Master Robert Catesby, and all that had followed in which he was concerned.  Petronella would only be bewildered by so many strange things.  It was enough to tell her of his recent adventures in the forest, and his growing hopes of coming upon traces of the lost treasure.

Petronella listened to the whole of this tale with parted lips and wide-open eyes, as a child listens to a tale of fairy romance and wonder.  She could scarce believe that all these strange things had befallen her own brother; but as she questioned and he answered, she gradually began to understand, to enter into his feelings, and to obtain a clearer comprehension of the situation of affairs.  Her intercourse with the Trevlyns of the Chase had done something to widen her knowledge of life, and Cuthbert found that her mind had matured and expanded in a fashion he had hardly expected.  He wondered where she had picked up some of the bits of experience that fell from her lips from time to time, and he looked somewhat searchingly into her face.

“Methinks, my sister, that time has not stood still with thee since I went away.  Thou art wondrous wise for thy years.  Who has been thy instructor?”

Even in the moonlight he could see the sudden flush that dyed her cheek and neck at the question.

“I have been to the Chase as much as our father would permit—­indeed, I fear me I have been oftener; but I was very lonely, and they were all so kind.  And Philip, he has been often here.  He has been in very truth a—­a—­brother to me in thy place.  Methinks but for him I should almost have died.  But, O Cuthbert, it is hard, it is hard!”

The last words were spoken with such sudden passion and vehemence that the youth started and looked once again at his sister.  Of old, Petronella had always been so gentle, so meek and yielding, that to hear such an outburst from her startled him not a little.

“What is hard, sweet sister?”

“To be the daughter of—­of—­such a father as ours,” she answered, lowering her voice and speaking with infinite sadness now.  “Heaven knows I have striven to love him, have striven to obey him, have striven to be all a daughter should!”

“Ay, verily thou hast!” answered Cuthbert warmly.  “I have chidden thee many a time before this for the meekness that raised no protest let him be never so harsh.  Thou hast done more than thy share, sweet Petronella.  None can blame thee for rebellious thoughts or words.  If he will none of our love or service, the fault is his, not ours—­thine least of all, for thou wast ever gentle and meek.”