ask me to leave them," she says, almost disdainfully—"to leave the dear old pater and the boys just when they need me most? It's little you know of me, Power, or you would never dream of asking me to do such a thing."

"If you could do any good," he begins; but she interrupts him with a swift, almost imperious gesture.

"I could do the good that Rooney's wife did him, if ever it should come to that with us at Donaghmore."

"Honor, why do you think of such things?"

"It's time to think of them," she says wearily, "when they are acted before our eyes. How can I tell how soon it may be our turn? I said it was not true when Launce came in and told us that poor Rooney was shot like a rabbit, before the eyes of his wife and little children. I cried out against it in horror. 'There is not a man in the place who could do such a thing!' I said; but I am beginning to know better now."

A look of anguish crosses the man's face as he listens to her. He is a gentleman, and his better nature must revolt from crimes like this.

"The man had been warned. If he had held his tongue, no harm would have come to him."

"And we have been warned," the girl says, with a bitter smile, "and we have not held our tongues, and therefore harm will come to us."

As the words pass her lips she shivers, remembering Aileen's warnings. It seems to her that Power's face has grown harsh and cruel, like the face of a man who is her judge more than her lover.

"Honor, do you want to break my heart? You know how I love you, have loved you always. Launce hates me—your father has plainly said he will 'never give his only girl to a rebel;' and I am that in his opinion. But why should they stand between us, my darling? What right has any man to come between such love as ours?"

"No man can come between us, Power. Have I not given you my plighted word? But, if my father and brother are in danger, my place is with them. You see that, don't you?"

The beautiful face is close to his own; he feels the clasp of her soft hands in his, and suddenly, with a sigh that is almost a groan, he takes her into his arms and kisses her passionately.

CHAPTER IV.

"Oh, Honor, is it true?" Belle Delorme cries breathlessly, as she meets her friend midway on the Rectory lawn. "Launce has been telling us—but sure he laughed so we couldn't believe him—that the old abbot has begun to walk again."

"It is quite true that people say he has," Honor answers guardedly.

She is pale to-day, and there is a weary look in her eyes that give a pathetic expression to the whole face.

"And he has really been seen, dear?" exclaims Belle, raising her hands in dismay. "Oh, but it is dreadful! Sure we never thought such things could happen in our day."

"What a goose you are!" Launce says, coming up at this moment. "Such things, as you call them, never happened and never will; it's all a hoax—some scamps doing it for a lark; and one of these nights when I've nothing better to do, I'll go down and ferret out the rascal."

"Oh, no, no, Launce, dear! Promise me that you'll do nothing of the kind," Belle cries in genuine distress. "It would be madness. If the old abbot is walking, depend upon it it is for some good reason; trouble is coming to the family in some shape of form."

But Launce only laughs at her, and even Honor will not confess her belief in this supernatural visitor.

"If it could tell us anything," she says in her grave way, "it would be different—good might come of it; as it is, it does nothing but scare away visitors and keep our servants in such a state of terror that they can't attend to their work. It is really very disagreeable."

"Oh, Honor darling, how can you talk like that?" Belle cries with a little shiver. "I declare you are almost as bad as Launce."

The lawn at Donaghmore rectory is covered with guests. A table has been set under the trees, and Mrs. Delorme, in a delightfully cool-looking dress and with delicate ribbons in her lace cap, is busy making tea. There are pretty colors, gay voices and bursts of musical laughter on every hand.

Some of the girls are good-looking, more than one or two are handsome; and the men in their tennis flannels and gay caps show well by contrast.

"Your cousin is here—he is staying with the Frenches—so mamma had to ask him," Belle whispers almost nervously; and the next moment Honor finds herself face to face with Brian Beresford.

She has never seen him since that day he stooped and kissed her under the cherry-trees. Honor's cheeks turn crimson as she remembers that passionate kiss.

"Does he think of it?" she wonders as she meets his eyes.

"I thought you had gone back to England," she says. She hardly knows what she does say, so stupid is she feeling.

"I did go home, but could not stay long; I had business in Ireland that could not be neglected."

"Business?" she repeats wonderingly.

"Yes," he says gravely—"important business; it may keep me here for some time yet."

She listens in surprise, but she is too proud to ask him what his business may be. Perhaps he would not tell her if she did; but he is nothing to her—less than nothing. Why should she trouble about his affairs?

"What have you been doing to yourself, Honor?" They have come to the narrow wire fence that separates the rectory lawn from the rectory paddock. "You are as pale as a ghost. Have you been fretting?"

For an instant she looks at him coldly, almost angrily; then the tears come into her eyes. Something in his voice, in the way he is looking down at her, in the touch of his hand, as he lays it over hers for an instant, has gone straight to her heart.

"I am not very happy certainly; it is an anxious time for us all just now."

"Yes," he says, pretending not to see her tears, "and it is lonely at Donaghmore; but you are not so unprotected as you appear to be. There are those on the watch who would gladly die to shield you from danger."

"I used to think so," she answers sadly, "but I am not so sure of it now."

"But you may be sure of it, Honor—I will answer for that myself."

She smiles as she listens to him. What should this Englishman know of the feelings of the people? He means to be kind of course; but his words carry no comfort—how should they? Looking at him as he stands before her, she cannot but own that, if his face is proud and a trifle cold in its repose, there is something true and winsome in it. The keen eyes meet hers unflinchingly, the firm lips under the heavy moustache have not a harsh curve about them; it is a face with power in it, and some tenderness and passion too, under all its chill composure.

"He has the look of a man one might trust through everything," she says to herself almost with a sigh; and then she turns to go back to her friends, angry that he should have won so much thought from her.

"Don't go yet, Honor; it's cooler here than among all those chattering women; and if you want any tea, I can bring you some."

The sunshine is beating fiercely down upon the groups scattered over the center of the lawn; but here under the trees the grass is flecked with cool shadows, and the two catch the breeze—such as it is—that comes from the river.

"I don't care for any tea, thanks; but I do enjoy this shade," she says almost reluctantly; and still indifferent to a degree that might be