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