eeps all human sorrow in the black, polluted
atmosphere of hell. For such a sufferer the heart of Arthur Dillon
opened as wide as the gates of heaven. Oh, had he not known what it is
to suffer so, without consolation!

He was like a son to Owen Ledwith.

Every plan born in the poetic and fertile brain of the patriot he took
oath to carry out; he vowed his whole life to the cause of Ireland; and
he consoled Owen for apparent failure by showing him that he had not
altogether failed, since a man, young, earnest, determined, and wealthy
should take up the great work just where he dropped it. Could any worker
ask more of life? A hero should go to his eternity with lofty joy,
leaving his noble example to the mean world, a reproach to the
despicable among rulers, a star in the night to the warriors of justice.

In Honora her father did not find the greatest comfort. His soul was of
the earth and human liberty was his day-star; her soul rose above that
great human good to the freedom of heaven. Her heart ached for him,
that he should be going out of life with only human consolation. The
father stood in awe of an affection, which at the same time humbled and
exalted him; she had never loved man or woman like him; he was next to
God in that virginal heart, for with all her love of country, the father
had the stronger hold on her. Too spiritual for him, her sublime faith
did not cheer him. Yet when they looked straight into each other's eyes
with the consciousness of what was coming, mutual anguish terribly
probed their love. He had no worry for her.

"She has the best of friends," he said to Arthur, "she is capable, and
trained to take care of herself handsomely; but these things will not be
of any use. She will go to the convent."

"Not if Lord Constantine can hinder it," Arthur said bluntly.

"I would like to see her in so exalted and happy a sphere as Lord
Constantine could give her. But I am convinced that the man is not born
who can win the love of this child of mine. Sir Galahad might, but not
the stuff of which you and I are made."

"I believe you," said Arthur.

Honora herself told him of her future plans, as they sat with the sick
man after a trying evening, when for some hours the end seemed near. The
hour invited confidences, and like brother and sister at the sick-bed of
a beloved parent they exchanged them. When she had finished telling him
how she had tried to do her duty to her father, and to her country, a