and blood--my cousin, thy nephew. He is Cuthbert Trevlyn, son to
that sister Bridget of thine of whom we have sometimes heard thee
speak!"

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."