"Yes, mamma; this half-hour," said Clara, not as yet coming away from
the window.

"I did not hear his horse, and imagined he was here still. I hope he
has not thought me terribly uncivil, but I could not well leave what
I was doing."

To this little make-believe speech Clara did not think it necessary
to return any answer. She was thinking how she would begin to say
that for saying which there was so strong a necessity, and she could
not take a part in small false badinage on a subject which was so
near her heart.

"And what about that stupid mason at Clady?" asked the countess,
still making believe.

"Mr. Fitzgerald was there again to-day, mamma; and I think it will be
all right now; but he did not say much about it."

"Why not? you were all so full of it yesterday."

Clara, who had half turned round towards the light, now again turned
herself towards the window. This task must be done; but the doing of
it was so disagreeable! How was she to tell her mother that she loved
this man, seeing that so short a time since she had declared that she
loved another?

"And what was he talking about, love?" said the countess, ever
so graciously. "Or, perhaps, no questioning on the matter can be
allowed. May I ask questions, or may I not? eh, Clara?" and then the
mother, walking up towards the window, put her fair white hands upon
her daughter's two shoulders.

"Of course you may inquire," said Clara.

"Then I do inquire--immediately. What has this _preux chevalier_ been
saying to my Clara, that makes her stand thus solemn and silent,
gazing out into the dark night?"

"Mamma!"

"Well, love?"

"Herbert Fitzgerald has--has asked me to be his wife. He has proposed
to me."

The mother's arm now encircled the daughter lovingly, and the
mother's lips were pressed to the daughter's forehead. "Herbert
Fitzgerald has asked you to be his wife, has he? And what answer has
my bonny bird deigned to make to so audacious a request?"

Lady Desmond had never before spoken to her daughter in tones so
gracious, in a manner so flattering, so caressing, so affectionate.
But Clara would not open her heart to her mother's tenderness. She
could not look into her mother's face, and welcome her mother's
consent with unutterable joy, as she would have done had that consent
been given a year since to a less prudent proposition. That marriage
for which she was now to ask her mother's sanction would of course
be sanctioned. She had no fa