rene Cardew had been the cause of the tragedy which had
resulted in Jasper Tuite's death and Uncle Luke's exile, and he hated
her and Brosna and all the Cardews on her account.

"He shows no sign of it," my godmother answered. "I have little cause to
love the Cardews, but Anthony is a fine fellow. It is a thousand pities
that his life must be sacrificed to the memory of a woman who was always
beyond his reach, even while she lived."

Perhaps if they had talked more openly I should have been less
interested in the Cardews; but the mystery which hung about Brosna and
its owners for me had had the effect as I grew up of stimulating my
curiosity about them. And now that I knew I did not feel called upon to
hate them. Even if Irene Cardew had played fast and loose between Jasper
Tuite and Uncle Luke there was no reason for hating her brother, who
must have been but a boy at the time. I wondered if Irene had been like
her brother Anthony, had worn in her delicacy the look of a rapier, a
flame, of something bright and upstanding and alive with energy.

Since I might meet Richard Dawson and had no hope of meeting Anthony
Cardew, I walked much those days within our own walls, which gave me
space enough for Aghadoe park-walls are four miles in length.

But most often I found myself taking the path that led to the postern
gate as though the place had some pleasant, dreamy association for me.

One day I had the whim to creep again within the little glade where
Anthony Cardew had come to my help. It was now all hung about with wild
roses and woodbine and was very sweet, and far overhead the trees met in
a light, springing roof of green, more beautiful than any cathedral.

It had grown dark, and as I stood in the glade the rain pattered on the
leaves overhead, but not a drop reached me. There were harebells and
saxifrage in the moss, and underneath the bushes there was scented
woodruff, and there was also sweet wild thyme. I thought I would make a
summer drawing-room of the place, which none should know of beside
myself, and should bring my books there and my needlework and
embroidery, and spend long hours there alone or with a dog's
companionship which is better than solitude.

The shower passed away over the hills, and the sun shone out. It
sparkled here and there where a raindrop hung on a leaf and it suffused
the glade with a warm, golden glow.

Suddenly something sparkled that was not a raindrop, something in the
moss an