wondering eyes. "How on earth did you find it all out? I'll vow Honor never spoke a word to you about it."

"How do I know that the sun is shining or that there is clover in that meadow? Haven't I my senses like other people?"

So they pass on their way, laughing and happy; and the man coming out from the shelter of the larch-wood, which here borders the high-road, looks after them with a frown, and a word that is certainly not a blessing on his bearded lips.

"It's not your fault," he says to himself bitterly, as he watches the two sauntering along in the yellow sunlight, "that she cares for Power Magill, or that she ever cared for him, for that matter."

As he stands there in his well-worn shooting-coat, although he is dressed little better than one of his own keepers, no one could mistake him for other than a gentleman. He is a handsome man, with keen hazel eyes set far back under brows as dark as a Spaniard's, but his face, for all its comeliness, is almost forbidding in its sternness.

Turning off the road now, he makes his way across a field and down some rude stone steps to the bank of the river.

A little house stands here, nestling against the rocky bank. The old door hangs off its hinges, the one small-paned window is stuffed with rags.

Power Magill stoops as he enters the poor place, and his eyes, dazzled by the sunlight outside, look round the room in a vain search. He can see no one; a girl rises from a low stool by the hearth, where she has been coaxing a smoldering turf to light, and comes forward.

"Is your father in, Patsy?"

"He is not, your honor. He went to Derry to-day with one of Neil's foals, and he will not be home till the morning!"

"And your brother—where is he?"

"I can't rightly say, your honor! Maybe he is gone to the bog to——"

But he stops her, frowning impatiently.

"Tell them both that I came here for them. Say no more than that—they will understand."

Then he strikes out, glad to breathe the fresh air after that tainted atmosphere. The girl walks cautiously to the door and looks after him. She is barefooted, and on the earth floor her tread makes no sound.

"Heaven forgive yez!" she says almost fiercely. "The innocent creatures never hurt man nor beast till yez came with your foine tongue and your yellow guineas, tempting and ruining 'em! But I'll be even with yez yet!"

From this fetid little cabin on the river's side a brisk walk of ten minutes brings Power Magill to the gates of Donaghmore. As he passes up the drive he stops and turns aside for an instant to look at the ruins of the old Abbey, standing grim and cold and gray in the yellow sunshine.

The refectory is still standing, its three windows looking toward the stone house on the hill. There is a low arched gateway, but the gate is gone, and beyond in the great quadrangle the stones lie as they have fallen.

"What asses we are, the best of us!" Power Magill says grimly, as he looks at this relic of a dead man's wealth and power.

The old abbot—buried, so say the traditions of the family, under the ruins of the pile that he reared with such pride and vainglory—never lived to enjoy his riches. Twice he built the house, and twice it was destroyed; the first time partially, and by fire, the second time utterly. "For," so the story goes, "a wind rose in the night, and swept the great stones one from another, leaving the place as it is to this day." No Blake has ever been bold enough to rebuild it.

As Power Magill passes into the quadrangle, an owl flies out of the ivy, and sweeps so close before his face that he draws back, startled. The bird's cry is caught up and echoed round the empty spaces, till it seems as if the place must be full of mocking spirits. With a frown he turns and retraces his steps, never pausing to look back till he has gained the steps on Donaghmore. A dark cloud has obscured the sun, and the whole pile lies in the shadow.

Superstitious under all his cynicism, Power Magill shudders.

"It is an omen," he says: and the next moment the heavy door behind him swings open, and Honor stands on the threshold.

Her cheeks flush, her eyes brighten at the sight of him.

"Oh, Power," she says, with a ring of pleasure in her voice, "I was just longing to see you! I want to talk to you," she adds, coming down the steps and slipping her hand within his arm; "and we can talk best out-of-doors."

They go together across the lawn, and through a small green door into a high-walled garden, richly stocked with old-fashioned flowers.

"Another letter came this morning, Power—such a dreadful letter, worse than all the rest!—and last night Launce's bay mare was shot through the head. He is in an awful way about it, so is the pater. They have gone to Drum now to tell the police."

She is looking at him as she says this; and the cruel expression in his eyes and the mocking smile that stirs his lips make her heart beat with something like fear.

"They might have spared themselves the trouble—the police cannot help them."

"What can we do, Power? What ought we to do?" she says, almost piteously.

"I told you long ago what you ought to do. It's almost too late now—Launce has made the place too hot to hold him, and that's the truth, Honor. The sooner he goes back to Dublin the better for all of you."

"Poor Launce—I don't see what he has done!"

"He has done enough to get his quietus," Power answers grimly; "and he would have had it long ago if he had not had a friend to speak for him."

"And these are the people we have lived among all our lives!" the girl says, with a sigh. "Oh, Power, it seems as if it couldn't be true!"

"It's true enough," he answers her, more gently. "The men are maddened by a sense of their wrongs! They are not prepared to love those who openly side with their oppressors."

The vehement passion in his voice, the fierce flush on his cheeks, chill the girl and check the words that rise to her lips.

Why appeal to this man? He is not on their side, but against them. He loves her, she knows, but does he not love this "cause" to which he is pledged, body and soul, better than her?

"Well, we must do the best we can," she says after a pause—a lengthy, ominous pause it has seemed to Honor. "It is to be hoped the poor fellows will come to their senses in time."

"And meanwhile?" he questions her.

"Meanwhile we must take care of ourselves," the girl answers briefly and coldly.

"My darling, you don't know what you are talking about—you have been led away by Launce's boasting. You cannot see your danger as I, who loves you, see it. Come to me, Honor! Be my wife, and let me take care of you. I swear you shall never repent it—never!"

For an instant she looks at him, startled; then the color floods her face, and her eyelids droop.

"As my wife you will be safe and happy—for don't we love each other?"

"Then," she says—and she shivers even in the hot sunshine—"you think
I am not safe here, in my own home?"

"You are not!" he answers impressively.

"Then my father and the boys are not safe either?" she questions more eagerly.

"The certainly are not safe, Honor. If they had any sense they would leave the country while they can."

"And yet it is now you would