It was a still night, and their voices were borne distinctly to Rachel as they slowly advanced.  The first words to reach her came from the young lady.

“You will be going out after him, Frederick.  That will be the next thing I expect.”

“Sibylla,” was the answer, and his accents bore that earnest, tender, confidential tone which of itself alone betrays love, “be you very sure of one thing:  that I go neither there nor elsewhere without taking you.”

“Oh, Frederick, is not John enough to go?”

“If I saw a better prospect there than here, I should follow him.  After he has arrived and is settled, he will write and report.  My darling, I am ever thinking of the future for your sake.”

“But is it not a dreadful country?  There are wolves and bears in it that eat people up.”

Frederick Massingbird slightly laughed at the remark.  “Do you think I would take my wife into the claws of wolves and bears?” he asked, in a tone of the deepest tenderness.  “She will be too precious to me for that, Sibylla.”

The voices and the footsteps died away in the distance, and Rachel came out of her hiding-place, and went quickly on towards the village.  Her father’s cottage was soon gained.  He did not live alone.  His only son, Robert—­who had a wife and family—­lived with him.  Robert was the son of his youth; Rachel the daughter of his age; the children of two wives.  Matthew Frost’s wife had died in giving birth to Robert, and twenty years elapsed ere he married a second.  He was seventy years of age now, but still upright as a dart, with a fine fresh complexion, a clear bright eye, and snow-white hair that fell in curls behind, on the collar of his white smock-frock.

He was sitting at a small table apart when Rachel entered, a candle and a large open Bible on it.  A flock of grandchildren crowded round him, two of them on his knees.  He was showing them the pictures.  To gaze wonderingly on those pictures, and never tire of asking explanations of their mysteries, was the chief business of the little Frosts’ lives.  Robert’s wife—­but he was hardly ever called anything but Robin—­was preparing something over the fire for the evening meal.  Rachel went up and kissed her father.  He scattered the children from him to make room for her.  He loved her dearly.  Robin loved her dearly.  When Robin was a grown-up young man the pretty baby had come to be his plaything.  Robin seemed to love her still better than he loved his own children.

“Thee’st been crying, child!” cried old Matthew Frost.  “What has ailed thee?”

Had Rachel known that the signs of her past tears were so palpable as to call forth remark from everybody she met, as it appeared they were doing, she might have remained at home.  Putting on a gay face, she laughed off the matter.  Matthew pressed it.

“Something went wrong at home, and I got a scolding,” said Rachel at length.  “It was not worth crying over, though.”