Jack accepted the invitation with alacrity, thinking he saw an opening for the confidential conversation he had been longing to hold with his father for some days past. The burden of secrecy had been troubling him more and more, of late, and he had determined at last, that, come of it what would, he would bear it no longer. He hastened to make himself ready, and, as he was descending the stairs, he was beckoned by Sister Barbara.
"Jack," said she, "I cannot but think I am playing a deceitful part by your good father. I cannot think it is right to go on so. I shall grieve to leave the shelter of this roof where I have been so happy—where I have first learned the meaning of the word home," said the good lady, her eyes filling with tears; "but it is not right to expose your father to the dangers which may arise from harboring a heretic. I must leave you, though I know not whither I can go."
"Do nothing hastily, dearest sister," said Jack. "I myself shall open my heart to my father this afternoon, and we will see what is to be done. I trust all may yet be well."
"All will yet be well," returned Sister Barbara. "It cannot but be well if we are only faithful; but I doubt we shall see terrible times first. Let us pray for one another that our faith fail not in the fiery trial."
In the course of their ride, Jack opened his heart to his father, as he proposed. He found Master Lucas not unprepared for the disclosure, and though much disturbed yet not inclined to be angry.
"I have been suspecting as much, this long time," said he. "Ever since your return from Holford, I could not but see that you were greatly changed and improved—yes, I will say improved. But to think that you should have heard all this from Uncle Thomas. Truly, one never knows where danger lies. Had I been told to select a safe place for a lad, I could not have thought of a better one."
"Did you not, then, know the story of his father?" asked Jack.
"I do remember hearing something of it, but the matter happened long before my time, and was hushed up as much as might be. And then, who would think that Uncle Thomas, who could not have been more than fifteen at the time, would have remembered and held fast his father's teachings all these years, and after all he has gone through? It is truly wonderful!"
"It is, indeed," said Jack. "You would be astonished to see how much he remembers of what he learned when he was a little lad. But, dear father, I am so glad you are not angry with me. I feared you would be so, but yet I felt that I could not keep a secret from you any longer. You have been so good and kind to me, that it made me feel like a traitor to know that I had any concealment from you."
"Your secret has not been so well kept but I have had a shrewd guess at it," said his father, smiling somewhat sadly; "but I waited till you should tell it me yourself, as I felt quite sure you would do, sooner or later. But, my son, have you counted the cost? You know to what all this may lead."