The beds were soon ready, and then Nansie called her father. He ascended the steps, and, pulling them up after him, made them fast. Father and daughter were thus in a stronghold, as it were, safe from invasion. Before entering the castle Mr. Loveday had seen that the old horse was safe, and had tethered it by a rope to one of the wheels. Then, kissing Nansie with much tenderness, he retired to rest. He slept in the back room, Nansie in the front, and the only means of ingress and egress was the back door in Mr. Loveday's bedroom. Thus he served as a kind of watch-dog to his daughter. She, partly disrobing, sat awhile by the open window, looking out upon the shadows. She had much to think of--her father's illness, their worldly circumstances, her absent lover; but her mind was as healthy as her body, and she looked upon all things hopefully. She did not muse long; finishing her preparations for bed, she closed the windows, and slid between the sheets. She slept for an hour, and awoke; slept again for a little while, and again awoke. This was not her usual habit; as a rule she could sleep seven or eight hours at a stretch. Perhaps she was listening for the nightingale's song. It came, and she listened in delight to the bird of love calling for its mate; and as she lay awake another sound reached her ears, as of a heavy body moving softly outside. It was not the old horse. What could it be? She slipped out of bed, and listened at the door which led from her room to her father's. She heard his soft breathing; he seemed to be peacefully sleeping. Presently, as she stood in darkness, she heard a whispering voice which caused her heart to throb wild with joy. "Nansie!" She glided to the window and raised the lower sash. "Kingsley!" she whispered, musically, in reply. "You are here, my darling! I have found you!" "Hush! Speak softly, or you will awake my father. What a time to come! How good you are!" "I received your letter and telegram, and could not rest What a hunt I have had for you! I must speak to you, Nansie. Can't you come out?" "Not to-night, Kingsley; it is impossible. Oh, Kingsley, how happy you have made me!" "What else do I live for? But I must speak to you, I say. I cannot wait." "You must--till to-morrow morning. Listen to the nightingale. Is it not sweet?" "To-morrow morning, you say. An eternity! How am I to be sure you will not disappear before then?" "I shall be here, in the woods, at sunrise. Could I keep away, knowing you were waiting for me? There--you make me say foolish things!" "Give me your hand, Nansie." She put her hand out of the window; her white arm was partly bared by the loosened sleeve. He, standing on the spoke of the wheel, took her hand and kissed it, and then did not relinquish it. "You are well, Nansie?" "Yes, Kingsley." "Quite well?" "Quite well." "And your father?" "He is not well, I grieve to say." "We will make him so, you and I. But what a freak--to live like this!" "It is delightful."