The swift look of wistful questioning, the nervous movements of the slim hands, the parted lips and quickly coming breath, were not lost upon the parents, who were watching the advance of their daughter with no small interest and curiosity.  But the smile upon both faces seemed to reassure the girl; and as her father held out his hand, she came and stood beside him willingly, looking from one to the other with fluttering breath and changing colour.

“You sent for me, my father?”

“Yes, Kate; we have somewhat to say to thee, thy mother and I. Canst guess what that something is?”

A vivid blush for a moment dyed her cheek and as quickly faded; but she did not speak, only shook her head.

Sir Richard gave his wife a quick smile, and took Kate’s hand in his.

“My child,” he said, with unwonted tenderness, “why hast thou been keeping a secret from thy mother and me?”

Kate started and drew her hand away, moving a pace farther off, and regarding her father with wide open, dilated eyes.

“A secret!” she faltered, and grew very pale.

Sir Richard smiled, and would have taken her hand once more, but that she glided from his reach, still watching him with an expression he found it hard to read.  Her mother laid down her embroidery, and studied her face with a look of aroused uneasiness; but the father was utterly without suspicion of approaching any hidden peril, and continued in the same kindly tones.

“Nay, now, my girl, thou needest not fear!” he said.  “All young maidens give their hearts away in time; and so as thou givest thine worthily, neither thy father nor thy mother will chide.”

Kate gave one or two gasps, and then spoke with impassioned earnestness.

“O father, I could not help it!  I strove against it as long as I might.  I feared it was a thing that must not be.  But love was too strong.  I could not fight for ever.”

“Tut—­tut, child! why shouldest thou fight?  Why didst thou not speak to thy mother?  Girls may breathe a secret into a mother’s ear that is not to be spoke elsewhere.  Thou shouldest have told her, child, and have spared thyself much weary misery.”

Kate’s head was hung very low; neither parent could see her face.

“I did not dare,” she answered softly; “I knew that I was wrong.  I feared to speak.”

“Thou art a strange mixture of courage and fear, my saucy Kate.  I would once have vowed that thou wouldst fear not to speak aloud every thought of thy heart.  But love changes all, I ween, and makes sad cowards of the boldest of us.  And so thou didst wait till he declared his love, and fretted out thy heart in silence the while?”

Kate lifted her head and looked at her father, a faint perplexity in her eyes.

“Nay, I ever knew he loved me.  It was that I feared thy displeasure, my father.  I had heard thee say—­”

“Nothing against Sir Robert, I warrant me,” cried Sir Richard heartily; whilst Kate took one backward step and exclaimed: