g of the third day, however, the subject was again
broached.

Milbanke was sitting by one of the long, dining-room windows, reading
by the faint twilight that filtered in from the fast-darkening sky. The
light in the room was fitful; for though the table was already laid for
dinner, the candles had not yet been lighted.

With his book held close to his eyes, he had been reading studiously
for close upon an hour, when the quick opening of the door behind him
caused him to look round. As he did so, he closed his book somewhat
hastily and rose with a slight gesture of embarrassment, for the
disturber of his peace was Clodagh. But it was not so much the fact of
her entry that had startled him, as the fact that, for the first time
since her father's death, she was arrayed in her riding-habit.

Shaken out of his calm, he turned to her at once.

"Are you--are you going for a ride?" he asked in unconcealed surprise.

Clodagh nodded. She was drawing on her thick chamois gloves, and her
riding-crop was held under her arm. Had the light in the room been
stronger, he would have seen that her lips were firmly set and her eyes
bright with resolution. But his mind was absorbed by his surprise.

"But is it not rather--late?" he hazarded anxiously, with a glance
towards the window.

She looked up astonished.

"Late?" she repeated incredulously.

Then the look of faintly contemptuous tolerance that sometimes touched
her with regard to him passed over her face.

"Oh no; not at all!" she explained. "I'm used to riding in the evening.
You see, Polly must be exercised; and I'd rather it was dark, the first
time I rode after----"

Her voice faltered.

Milbanke heard the tremor, and, as once before, his sense of personal
timidity fled before his spontaneous pity.

"Clodagh," he said suddenly, "allow me to ride with you. I was a fairly
good horseman in--in my day."

There was pathos in the deprecating justification; but Clodagh's
attention was caught by the words alone.

"You!" she said in blank amazement.

Then something in the crudeness of her tone struck upon her, and she
made haste to amend her exclamation.

"Of course it's very, very kind of you," she added awkwardly.

At her lowered tone, Milbanke coloured, and took a step forward.

"Clodagh," he began, with a flash of courage, "I think you might allow
me to be more kind to you than you do. I think I might give you more
protection. And it has occurred to me that pe