But this was not the moment to add to his anxiety by futile, worrying conjectures. He had sent for her because he wanted her, and she was here to do for him, to help and support him in every way that her strength of will and her energy would dictate. "You sent for me, Philip," she said with a cheerful, hopeful smile. Her look seemed to put fresh life into his veins. In a moment he tried to conquer his despondency, and with a quick gesture he tore open the rough, woollen shirt he wore, and from beneath it drew a packet of letters. Not only his hand now, but his whole figure seemed to quiver with excitement as he gazed at this packet with glowing eyes. "These letters, dear," he said in a whisper, "are my one hope of safety. They have not left my body day or night ever since I first understood my position and realised my danger, and now, with them, I place my life in your hands." "Yes, Philip?" "They prove my innocence," he continued, as nervously he pulled at the string that held the letters together. "Here is one from Lovat," he added, handing one of these to Patience, "read it, dear, quickly. You will see he begs me to join the Pretender’s standard. Here’s another from Kilmarnock—that was after the retreat from Derby—he upbraids me for holding aloof. I was in hiding at Nottingham then, but _they_ knew where I was, and would not leave me alone. They would have followed me if they could. And here ... better still ... is one from Charles Edward himself, just before he fled to France, calling me a traitor for my loyalty to King George." Feverishly he tore open letter after letter, thrusting them into her hand, scanning them with burning, eager eyes. She took them from him one by one, glanced at them, then quietly folded each precious piece of paper, and tied the packet together again. Her hand did not shake, but beneath her cloak she pressed the letters to her heart, the letters that meant the safety of her dear one’s life. "Oh! if I had known all this sooner!" she sighed involuntarily. But that was the only reproach that escaped her lips for his want of confidence in her. "I nearly yielded to Lovat’s letter," said the boy, hesitatingly. "I know, I know, dear," she said with an infinity of indulgence in her gentle smile. "We won’t speak of the past any more. Now let us arrange the future." He tried to master his excitement, throwing off with an effort of will his feverishness and his morbid self-condemnation. He had done a foolish and a cowardly thing; he knew that well enough. Fate had dealt him one of those cruel blows with which she sometimes strikes the venial offender, letting so often the more hardened criminal go scatheless.