Leaning back against the cushions of the coach, she had sat with eyes closed and hands tightly clutched. Anxious, wearied, at times hopeful, she had borne the terrible fatigue of this lumbering journey from Stretton Hall, along the unmade roads of Brassing Moor, with all the fortitude the Gascoynes had always shown for any cause they had at heart. At the cross-roads Thomas, the driver, brought his horses to a standstill. Already, as the coach had passed some fifty yards from the forge, Patience had leaned out of the window trying to get a glimpse of the dear face which she knew would be on the lookout for her. John Stich had escorted Betty as far as the bend in the road, and within sight of Timothy waiting some hundred yards further on, then he had retraced his steps, and was now back at the cross-roads ready to help Lady Patience to alight. "Let the coach wait here," she said to the driver, "we may sleep at Wirksworth to-night." "Ah! my good Stich," she added, grasping the smith’s hand eagerly, "my brother, how is he?" "All the better since he knows your ladyship has come," replied Stich. A few moments later brother and sister were locked in each other’s arms. "My sweet sister! My dear, dear Patience!" was all Philip could say at first. But she placed one hand on his shoulder and with a gentle motherly gesture brushed with the other the unruly curls from the white, moist forehead. He looked haggard and careworn, although his eyes now gleamed with feverish hope, and hers, in spite of herself, began to fill with tears. "Dear, dear one," she murmured, trying to look cheerful, to push back the tears. All would be well now that she could get to him, that they could talk things over, that she could _do_ something for him and with him, instead of sitting—weary and inactive—alone at Stretton Hall, without news, a prey to devouring anxiety. "That awful Proclamation," he said at last—"you have heard of it?" "Aye!" she replied sadly, "even before you did, I think. Sir Humphrey Challoner sent a courier across to tell me of it." "And my name amongst those attainted by Act of Parliament!" She nodded, her lips were quivering, and she would not break down, now that he needed all her courage as well as his own. "But I am innocent, dear," he said, taking both her tiny hands in his own, and looking firmly, steadfastly into her face. "You believe me, don’t you?" "Of course, Philip, I believe you. But it is all so hard, so horrible, and ’tis Heaven alone who knows which was the just cause." "There is no doubt as to which was the stronger cause, at anyrate in England," said Stretton, with some bitterness. "Charles Edward was very ill-advised to cross the border at all, and in the Midlands no one cares about the Stuarts now. But that’s all ancient history," he added with a weary sigh, "it’s no use dwelling over all the wretched mistakes that were committed last year, ’tis only the misery that has abided until now."