"Why did you run away, Philip?" she asked. "Because I was a fool ... and a coward," he added, while a blush of shame darkened his young Saxon face. "No, no..." "I thought if I remained at Stretton Charles Edward would demand my help ... and you know," he said with a quaint boyish smile, "I was never very good at saying ’Nay!’ I knew they would persuade me. Lovat and Kilmarnock were such friends, and..." "So you preferred to run away?" "It was cowardly, wasn’t it?" "I am afraid it was," she said reluctantly, her tenderness and her conviction fighting an even battle in her heart. "But why wouldn’t you tell me, dear?" "Because I was a fool," he said, cursing himself for that same folly. "You were away in London just then, you remember?" She nodded. "And there was no one to advise me, except Challoner." "Sir Humphrey? Then it was he?..." Philip looked at her in astonishment. There was such a strange quiver in her voice; a note of deep anxiety, of almost hysterical alarm. But she checked herself quickly, and said more calmly,— "What did Sir Humphrey Challoner advise you to do?" "He said that Charles Edward would surely persuade me to join his standard, that he would demand shelter at Stretton Hall, and claim my allegiance." "Yes, yes?" "And he thought that it would be wiser for me to put two or three counties between myself and the temptation of becoming a rebel." "He thought!..." There was a world of bitter contempt in those two words she uttered. Even Philip, absorbed as he was in his own affairs, could not fail to notice it. "Challoner has always been my friend," he said almost reproachfully. "I fancy, little sister," he added with his boyish smile, "that it rests with you that he should become my brother." "Hush, dear, don’t speak of that." "Why not?" She did not reply, and there was a moment’s silence between them. She was evidently hesitating whether to tell him of the fears, the suspicions which the mention of Sir Humphrey Challoner’s name had aroused in her heart, or to leave the subject alone. At last she said quite gently,— "But when I came home, dear, and found you had left the Hall without a message, without a word for me, why did you not tell me then?" The boy hung his head. He felt the tender reproach, and there was nothing to be said. "I would have stood by you," she continued softly. "I think I might have helped you. There was no disgrace in refusing to join a doomed cause, and you were a mere child when you made friends with Lovat." "I know all that now, dear," he said with some impatience. "Heaven knows I am paying dearly enough for my cowardice and my folly. But even now I cannot understand how my name became mixed up with those of the rebels. Somebody must have sworn false information against me. But who? I haven’t an enemy in the world, have I, dear?" "No, no," she said quickly, but even as she spoke the look of involuntary alarm in her face belied the assurance of her lips.