"No, no; don't go to her now," panted Sage, as John Berry took off his coat and threw it out into the hall. "Not go up to her? Nay, lass, that I will," he cried, and Sage followed him up-stairs. "Why, Rue, my lass," he cried, tenderly, "what's wrong wi' you?" At the sound of his voice Rue started from the bed and flung herself into his arms. "Jack, Jack!" she cried, "take me--hold me--husband, dear. God have mercy on me! I must be mad." Sage stayed with them in obedience to a sign from John Berry, and stood there trembling as she saw her sister's fair brown hair tumbled upon her husband's breast, to which she clung in an agony of remorse. Over and over again Rue kept raising her head, though to gaze piteously at her sister, and then hide her face again. A couple of hours went on like this, but when at last Sage found her opportunity, and clasping her sister to her breast, whispered--"Rue, may I trust you now?" "Yes, oh, yes," she sobbed. "I pray God I may never see his face again." "Then that is our secret, Rue," Sage whispered. "It is for ever buried in our breasts." She left them after some hours, Rue lying upon the bed, sobbing at times, and seemingly asleep, while John Berry sat beside her, holding her little white hands. Sage went down softly, but began to tremble as she heard voices in the room; but summoning up her courage, she entered, to find Morrison, the wheelwright, standing there, with the Churchwarden placing a glass of hot spirits and water in his hand. "Go back, go back, my darling," cried Mrs Portlock, excitedly. "No, no, my dear," said the Churchwarden, firmly; "Sage is no coward, and she must know. My darling, try and be firm, and hope for the best. The cart will be here directly, and were going to force our way through and bring him in. Yes, there it comes." "What--what is it?" panted Sage. "Is--is Frank--" "Oh, pray be silent, Joseph," sobbed Mrs Portlock. "Why?" said the Churchwarden, firmly. "She must know the worst. Get hot water and blankets ready, my dear, and we'll soon bring him round. Come, Morrison," and hurrying out, the door was pushed to, forcing back with it a quantity of the soft white snow. "For heaven's sake tell me, aunt!" sobbed Sage. "But am I to?" said the old lady, trembling before her niece. "Yes, yes," cried Sage. "I must know. Is he dead?" "No, no, my darling," said Mrs Portlock, piteously. "Tom Morrison was going home, but he could not get round by the ford. The cutting in Low Lane was full, so he came round our way; and--oh, dear me! oh, dear me!" "For heaven's sake, aunt, go on," cried Sage, half fiercely now. "Yes, my darling," sobbed Mrs Portlock; "and they'll be here directly, I hope and pray. And he came upon Cyril." "Cyril!" shrieked Sage. "Lying buried in the snow, just at the corner where he fought Luke Ross." Sage stood gazing at her with a blank white face, shivering violently as her aunt went on in a voice choked with tears.