“Take thine heart to thee, Dorrie. Thou art not sick, and if I can have thee away in sufficient time, God allowing, thou shalt not be. But I fear, if thou tarry, thou mayest have an attack of a certain pestilence that is rife in Kent at this season.”
“Pestilence, Aunt Frances! I never heard of no such going about. But if so, why I alone? There be Father, and True, and Aunt Grena—should they not go likewise?”
“No fear for Gertrude,” answered Mrs Collenwood, almost sadly. “And not much, methinks, for thy father. I am lesser sure of thine Aunt Grena: but I have not yet been able to prevail with her to accompany us.”
“But what name hath this pestilence, under your good leave, Aunt Frances?”
“It is called, Dorrie—persecution.”
The colour rose slowly in Pandora’s cheeks, until her whole face was suffused.
“Methinks I take you now, Aunt,” she said. “But, if I may have liberty to ask at you, wherefore think you Father and True to be safer than Aunt Grena and I?”
“Because they would yield, Dorrie. I misdoubt any charge brought against Gertrude; ’tis not such as she that come before religious tribunals. They will know they have her safe enough.”
“Aunt Frances,” said Pandora in a whisper, “think you I should not yield?”
“I hope thou wouldst not, Dorrie.”