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."

"Which I trow he never will be," answered Philip warmly, as he laid
his hand on Kate's shoulder.

Those two were very near akin in spirit and in sympathy. Kate knew
all his love for Petronella, and his anxiety for her since her
flight (though he fully believed her to be in hiding with Cuthbert
in the forest, albeit he had not been able to discover them), and
he had strong fellow feeling with the impulsive lovers.

"He has never loved any but thee, my sister, since the days we
played together as children. Save that concealment ever leads to
trouble, and that wedlock vows are too sacred to be made playthings
of, I could find it in my heart to wish that Petronella and I were
wed in like fashion. But our mother is sorely grieved at what thou
hast done--going before a tonsured priest, with none of thine own
kindred by, to take vows which should have had the sanction of thy
parents before they passed thy lips, and should have been made in
different fashion and in a different place. Howbeit no doubt time
will soften her anger, and she will grow reconciled to the thought.
When we have made all inquiries anent this priest and his ways, my
father and I will to London to speak with Lord Andover of this
business. I trust all will end well for thee, sister. But thou must
learn in thy captivity to be a patient and discreet maiden, that
they do not fear to give thee to Culverhouse at last, since it must
needs be so."

Kate looked up gratefully, comforted by the kind tone of her
brother's words.

"In very sooth I will try, Philip. I thank thee for thy good
counsel. I will be patient and discreet towards my great aunts. I
will strive to show them all due reverence, that they may satisfy
my mother when she makes inquiry of them."

Kate long remembered the ride with her father and brother through
the forest and across the heath that day. Her father was stern and
grave, and scarcely addressed a single word to her. Philip and she
talked a little, but were affected by this silence of displeasure,
and observed a befitting decorum and quietness. Sir Richard made
his daughter take him to the spot of her troth plight, and show him
exactly how and where it had t