to her, so that she might hide her face upon his breast. But he
came not. He did not come, though, as best she knew how, she had thrown
all her heart into her letters. Then her spirit sank within her, and she
sickened, and as her mother knelt over her, she allowed her secret to
fall from her.

Fred Neville's sitting-room at Ennis was not a chamber prepared for the
reception of ladies. It was very rough, as are usually barrack rooms in
outlying quarters in small towns in the west of Ireland,--and it was
also very untidy. The more prudent and orderly of mankind might hardly
have understood why a young man, with prospects and present wealth such
as belonged to Neville, should choose to spend a twelvemonth in such a
room, contrary to the wishes of all his friends, when London was open
to him, and the continent, and scores of the best appointed houses in
England, and all the glories of ownership at Scroope. There were guns
about, and whips, hardly half a dozen books, and a few papers. There
were a couple of swords lying on a table that looked like a dresser. The
room was not above half covered with its carpet, and though there were
three large easy chairs, even they were torn and soiled. But all this
had been compatible with adventures,--and while the adventures were
simply romantic and not a bit troublesome, the barracks at Ennis had
been to him by far preferable to the gloomy grandeur of Scroope.

And now Mrs. O'Hara was there, telling him that she knew of all! Not for
a moment did he remain ignorant of the meaning of her communication. And
now the arguments to be used against him in reference to the marriage
would be stronger than ever. A silly, painful smile came across his
handsome face as he attempted to welcome her, and moved a chair for her
accommodation. "I am so sorry that you have had the trouble of coming
over," he said.

"That is nothing. When will you make my child your wife?" How was he to
answer this? In the midst of his difficulties he had brought himself to
one determination. He had resolved that under no pressure would he marry
the daughter of O'Hara, the galley-slave. As far as that, he had seen
his way. Should he now at once speak of the galley-slave, and, with
expressions of regret, decline the alliance on that reason? Having
dishonoured this woman's daughter should he shelter himself behind the
dishonour of her husband? That he meant to do so ultimately is true;
but at the present moment such a task