ngs over so many Irish houses had suddenly
descended upon her. And in the consequent shock, it seemed that the
ground rocked under her feet. After a moment she steadied herself.

"Must the place go?" she asked in an intensely quiet voice.

"Yes. At least----"

"What?"

"It would have had to go, only----"

"Only for what?" In her keen anxiety Clodagh stooped forward and laid
her hand on her aunt's shoulder. "Only for what, Aunt Fan?"

Shaken and unnerved at the interrogation, Mrs. Asshlin sat up with a
start.

"Why do you do that, Clodagh?" she cried--"why do you do that? You gave
me a palpitation of the heart."

But Clodagh's eyes still burned with inquiry.

"Why won't the place have to go?" she demanded. "How will the debts be
paid?"

Mrs. Asshlin freed herself nervously from her niece's hand.

"Mr. Milbanke will pay them," she said impulsively; then instantly she
checked herself. "Oh! what have I said?" she exclaimed. "Don't pretend
that I told you, Clodagh. He is so particular that you shouldn't know."

But Clodagh scarcely heard. Her hand had dropped to her side, and she
stood staring blankly at her aunt.

"You mean to say that he's going to pay father's debts--our debts?"

"Yes. He even wants to put the place into good repair. Poor Denis seems
to have cast a perfect spell over him."

"Then we'll owe him something we can never possibly repay!"

Mrs. Asshlin drew herself up.

"Not exactly owe," she corrected. "It is an--an act of friendship. The
Asshlins have never been indebted to any one for a favour. Of course
Mr. Milbanke is a wealthy man; and it's easy to be generous when you
have money----"

She heaved a sigh.

But Clodagh stood staring vacantly at the opposite wall.

"It's a debt all the same," she said, after a long pause. "I suppose it
is what father used to call a debt of honour."

She spoke in a slow, mechanical voice; then, as if moved to action by
her train of thought, she turned without waiting for her aunt's
comment, and walked out of the room.

Traversing the corridor, she descended the stairs and passed straight
to the hall door. Once in the open, she wheeled to the right with a
steady deliberate movement and began slowly to retrace the steps she
had taken nearly half an hour earlier.

Steadily and unemotionally she went forward, skirting the courtyard,
until, at the dip of the path, the glen came into view, and with it
Milbanke's precise, black figure, standing exactly