Home? no, that was no longer the word for it.  Slowly but surely the knowledge had come to her that Cuthbert had been right, and that this house could no longer be a home to her.  Right well did she credit now, what had never entered her mind before, that her father had brooded and brooded until his very mind had become unhinged.  He was not master of his words when he spoke to her as he had done upon that terrible night; he was not master of his actions when he had flung her away and left her lying unconscious on the stone floor.  There was even some slight comfort in this thought, though it settled for ever the doubt in her mind.  She must leave the Gate House so soon as she was strong enough to walk, and she must find her brother in the forest, and place herself beneath his care.

The old servant approved the plan.  She herself could find a refuge at Trevlyn Chase; but that house would be no shelter for her young mistress.  Her father’s authority would be enough to carry her back into captivity; and what her fate would be, were she to have escaped him once and be again brought back, was a thought to shudder at.

“I must go back to Cuthbert,” she said to herself, as she looked over the fair landscape, and thought longingly of the cool, dim woods, and the free life of the forest.  Her own home was nothing now but a prison house.  She knew that if she presented herself before her father sound and whole, she would at once be placed under some close restraint that would effectually hinder her from carrying out her plan.  He would sooner kill her, as she verily believed, than permit her such liberty as might enable her to meet by accident or design any member of the household from the Chase.  If she were to succeed in her escape, the attempt must be made whilst her father still believed her too feeble to stir from her bed; after that she would be too closely watched for it to be possible.

The old woman entered into this scheme with alacrity and zeal.  Petronella kept to her bed; and when Nicholas Trevlyn demanded by signs how it fared with his daughter, he was answered by solemn shakings of the head.  If he mounted the stairs to see with his own eyes how she was, he saw her lying upon the bed with closed eyes and wan face, and would smile with an evil smile and mutter that she was safe enough now—­safe enough now.

Yet each day hope and the good food the shrewd old woman contrived to provide for her did its work upon Petronella’s frail body, and she grew better every hour.  Indeed, after some while she felt stronger than she had done for many weeks before her illness; and in due time even the fond old woman began to see that there was no need to postpone longer the scheme of escape.