“My child, for thou art but a child in years to me, tell me why it is thy voice seems so familiar, and even the lineaments of thy countenance?”
Martin was embarrassed and silent. He did not wish just now to reveal the secret of his relationship.
“Tell me,” said she, “doth thy mother yet live?”
“She doth.”
“And proud must she be of her son.”
He was still silent.
“Brother Martin,” said she, “I had a sister once, a wilful capricious girl, but of a loving heart. We lost her early. She did not die, but yet died to her family. She ran away and married an outlaw chieftain. Our father said, leave her to the life she has chosen, and forbade all communication: but often has my heart yearned for my only sister.”
She continued after a long pause:
“I heard that her husband, for whom she left us, died of wounds received in a foray, and that she actually married his successor, a man of low degree. That by her first husband, who was said to be of noble English blood, she had one child, a son.”
Again a long pause: