And oh, my father, such a wonderful thing! I can scarce believe it myself! This gentleman is no stranger; leastways he may not so be treated, for he is our very own flesh 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.