“It will brush, it is made of serge,” said Nella, blushing. “But now, Harry, I have something very serious to speak of. Where will you come and talk to me about it?”
“Let us come on to the tower battlements then,” said Harry, struck with the air of serious purpose that suddenly changed the girl’s laughing face.
Harry Hartsed also had relations in Portugal, and his father, a poor squire, lived not many miles from the manor. Sir Walter Northberry, after the fashion of the time, had taken him into his household that he might acquire the education of a gentleman, and he was now about seventeen, a fine, high-spirited boy, earnest and ambitious. He and Nella took their way on to the top of one of the little towers, from which they could see over miles of forest, in every variety of spring colouring.
Nella leaned against the battlement, the wind freshening her rosy cheeks and blowing her long hair about her shoulders. She fixed her eyes on Harry, and said—
“Now I am going to tell you a secret. I want you to help me, but I will never forgive you if you speak to any one else about it.”
“I always keep your secrets, Nella; you need not scold me beforehand,” said Harry.
“Well,” said Nella, too much in earnest to reply to his challenge, “it is about my—my sister.”
Her eyes fell, and she coloured deeply, with the awe of one approaching a mystery.
“Your sister! But you know nothing about her, Nella,” said Harry, tenderly and rather shyly.
“No; but I mean to find out. I began to think of her on Whitsun Eve, when I was making a garland for Our Lady. I want to know what has become of Catalina. I am sure she is alive.”