bly and suddenly been withdrawn;
and that she stood woefully alone and unprotected.

On she ran, until the archway of the courtyard broke into view; then,
without a moment's hesitation, she swerved to the left, sped across the
yard, and burst unceremoniously into the kitchen.

In the kitchen Hannah was busying herself over the fire that, in the
confusion of the morning's event, had been suffered to die down. At the
tempestuous opening of the door she turned sharply round, and for a
second stood staring at the disturbed face of her young mistress; then,
with the intuitive tact of her race, she suddenly opened her ample
arms, and with a sob Clodagh rushed towards her.

For a long moment Hannah held her as if she had been a baby, patting
her shoulder and smoothing her ruffled hair, while she cried out her
grief and bewilderment. At last, with a slow sobbing breath, she raised
her head.

"Oh, Hannah, I want father!" she said--"I want father!"

Hannah drew her closer to her broad shoulder.

"Whisht, now!" she murmured tenderly--"whisht, now! Sure, he's betther
off--sure, he's betther off."

But Clodagh's mind was too agitated to take comfort. With a change of
mental attitude, she altered her physical position--freeing herself
abruptly from Hannah's embrace.

"Hannah," she cried suddenly, "Mr. Milbanke wants me to marry him. And
I won't! I can't! I won't!"

Hannah's eyes narrowed sharply. But whatever her emotion, she checked
it, and bent over her charge with another caress.

"Sure you won't, of course, my lamb. Who'd be askin' you?"

"No one."

"Thin why would you be frettin' yourself?"

"I'm not fretting myself. Only----"

"Only what?"

"Only---- Oh! nothing, nothing." With a distressed movement Clodagh
pushed back her hair from her forehead. Then she turned to the old
servant afresh. "Hannah," she demanded, "why does he want to marry me?
Why does he want to?"

Hannah was silent for a space; then her shrewd, ugly face puckered into
an expression of profound wisdom.

"Men are quare," she said oracularly. "The oulder, the quarer. Maybe
he's thinkin' of himself in the matther; but maybe"--her voice dropped
impressively--"maybe, Miss Clodagh, 'tis the way he's thinkin' of
you----"

She paused with deep significance.

The effort after effect was not wasted. Clodagh looked up sharply.

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"Mane?" Hannah turned away, and, picking up a poker, began softly to
rake the ashes f