A strange dead silence fell on the group clustered in the doorway with lanterns and staffs.  All looked out into the darkness in a mist of perplexity and doubt, to see, as their eyes grew used to the obscurity, the tall figure of a slim, dark-faced youth standing beside a tired-looking horse, and steadying upon the saddle a large basket of rushes.

Martin Holt, after one minute of utter silence, released the clinging arms from about his neck, pushed Cherry not ungently towards her sisters, and stepped forward towards her preserver.

“This is a strange thing my daughter tells me, young sir,” he said, as he scanned the horseman’s face narrowly by the light of his lantern.  “I find it hard to credit my senses.  Art sure that she has understood thee aright?  Is Cuthbert Trevlyn truly thy name?”

“Ay, truly it is; and my mother’s was Bridget Holt, and she left her home long years ago as waiting maid to my Lady Adelaide de Grey, and led a happy life till some evil hap threw her across the path of Nicholas Trevlyn, who made her his wife.  I trow she many a time rued the day when she was thus persuaded; but repentance came too late, and death soon relieved her of her load of misery.  That she bequeathed to her children; and here am I this day a wanderer from my father’s house, constrained to seek shelter from her kindred, since flesh and blood can no longer endure the misery of dwelling beneath his roof.”

“Jacob,” said Martin Holt, “take yon steed to the stables of Master Miller, and ask him for fodder and tendance for the beast for this night.

“Young sir, thou hast a strange story to tell, and I would hear it anon.  If thou hadst not succoured my daughter in her hour of need, I must have bid thee welcome to my house and my table.  Since thou hast done this also, I do it the more readily.  I scarce knew that my misguided sister had borne a son.  Whether he lived or died I had no means of knowing.  But if thou art he, come in, and be welcome.  I will hear thy tale anon.  Meantime stand no longer without in the cold.”

If this welcome were something coldly given, Cuthbert was not aware of it.  Used as he was to his father’s fierce sullenness and taciturnity, any other manner seemed warm and pleasant.  He followed this new uncle up the dark staircase without any misgiving, and found himself quickly in the well-warmed and well-lighted eating parlour, where Mistress Susan was already bustling about in a very noisy fashion, getting the viands ready for serving.  A dark frown was on her face, and her whole aspect was thundery.

The sisters and Rachel had all vanished upstairs to hear Cherry’s story as they got her ready for the supper table, excitement in this new arrival of an unknown kinsman having saved the girl from any chiding or questioning from father or aunt.  The Coles, father and son, had returned to the upper parlour with the discretion and refinement of feeling natural to them; so that only Abraham Dyson witnessed the next scene in the little domestic drama, for Jacob had obediently gone off with the horse.