ined, the tears running down her cheeks. "Go on now, miss--ma'am,"
she added brokenly, pushing Clodagh forward towards the door, and
turning to Milbanke with an outstretched hand. "Good-bye, sir! And God
bless you!" Her sing-song voice fell, and her hard hand tightened over
his. "Take care of her!" she added. "An' don't be forgettin' that she's
nothin' but a child still, for all her fine height and her good looks."

She spoke with crude, rough earnestness; but at the last words her
feelings overcame her. With another spasmodic pressure, she released
his fingers and, turning incontinently, disappeared into the back
regions of the cottage.

For a moment Milbanke remained where she had left him, moved and
perplexed by her hurried words; then, suddenly remembering his duties,
he crossed the hall and punctiliously offered his arm to Clodagh. "The
carriage is waiting," he said gently. But Clodagh shook her head.

"Please take Nance first," she murmured in a low, constrained voice.

He acquiesced silently, and as he moved away from her, she turned to
Mrs. Asshlin.

"Good-bye, Aunt Fan!" she said. "And tell Larry that I'm--that I'm
sorry. He'll know what it means."

Her carefully controlled voice shook suddenly, as pride struggled with
affection and association. Suddenly putting her arms round Mrs.
Asshlin's neck she kissed her thin cheek; and, turning quickly, walked
forward to the waiting carriage.

There was a moment of excitement; a spasmodic waving of handkerchiefs,
the sound of a stifled sob and the tardy throwing of a slipper; then,
with a swish of the long driving whip, the horses bounded forward, and
the great lumbering carriage swung down the hill that led to the
Muskeere road.

As they bowled through the village street, Clodagh shrank back into her
corner, refusing to look her last on the scene that for nearly eighteen
years had formed a portion of her life's horizon. The instinctive
clinging to familiar things that forms so integral a part of the Celtic
nature, was swelling in her throat and tightening about her heart. She
resolutely refused to be conquered by her emotion; but the
emotion--stronger for her obstinate suppression of it--threatened to
dominate her. For the moment she was unconscious of Milbanke, sitting
opposite to her, anxious and deprecating; and she dared not permit
herself to press the small, warm fingers that Nance had insinuated into
her own.

With a lurch, the carriage swept round the