The girl had suffered a good deal during these past months.  She had not realized when yielding to Culverhouse’s persuasions how hard it would be to live beneath her parents’ roof with this secret preying on her mind.  She had not realized what a weight it would become in time, and she had looked for a speedy meeting with her cousin and betrothed in London, whither Sir Richard had intended taking his family for a while before the autumn set in.  Kate had looked forward then to making her confession to her parents and his, and winning pardon for them both, as she felt sure of doing when she had his support in the telling of the tale.  But the change of her father’s plans, and the absence from England of Lord Culverhouse, who had been sent on a mission to France by his father, put an end to all these hopes, and she had felt the burden of her secret heavy indeed.  Moreover, she was fearful lest Culverhouse should in some sort repent him of the step he had taken and wish it undone.  Kate had but a small share of vanity, and only a very modest appreciation of her own attractions, and it seemed to her as though her cousin, moving as he did in the gay world of fashion, must surely see many other maidens tenfold more beautiful and graceful.  Suppose he were to repent of his secret betrothal; suppose his troth plight weighed heavy on his spirit? what misery that would be for both!  And during these long months of silence such thoughts and fears had preyed upon the girl’s spirit, and had produced in her the change that both her parents had observed.

Wherefore now that the confession had been made, and the burdensome secret was a secret no longer, a reaction set in that was almost like relief.  She felt certain, since all was known, that Culverhouse would come forward and stand boldly beside her and lay claim to her hand before the world as he had talked of doing when he had led her to the troth plight on that May Day that seemed so long ago now.

Even the thought of the journey and the visit to her father’s great aunts was not altogether distasteful.  She was more afraid of meeting her mother’s sorrowful glances than stern ones from strangers.  Kate had no lack of courage, and the love of variety and change was implanted in her as strongly as it is in most young things; so that when Philip knocked at her door as the first rays of the October sun were gilding the trees and fields, it was with a smiling face that she opened to him, whilst he looked at her with something of smiling surprise in his glance.

“Art ready, my sister? the horses will be at the door in a few short minutes.  I am glad to see thee so bright and happy.  I had feared to discover thee bathed in tears of woe.”

“Perchance I ought to be heavier hearted than I am,” answered Kate, with a swift glance at Philip through her long lashes.  “I do repent me that I have angered our father and mother.  I know that I have been wrong to keep the secret; perchance I was wrong to let Culverhouse persuade me.  But that the thing is done I cannot truly repent; the only thing which would make me wish that vow unsaid would be if Culverhouse were to wish to be free of his troth plight.”