at him, as she upbraided
him with a smile. The smile was so sweet, so unlike her usual look;
that, to tell the truth, was often too sad and careworn for her age.

"Such things do happen, Lady Desmond."

"Ah, yes; they do happen. And with such a one as you, heaven knows
I do not begrudge the pleasure, if it were but now and then,--once
again and then done with. But you are too bright and too good for
such things to continue." And she took his hand and pressed it, as
a mother or a mother's dearest friend might have done. "It would so
grieve me to think that you should be even in danger of shipwreck.

"You will not be angry with me for taking this liberty?" she
continued.

"Angry! how could any man be angry for such kindness?"

"And you will think of what I say. I would not have you unsociable,
or morose, or inhospitable; but--"

"I understand, Lady Desmond; but when young men are together, one
cannot always control them."

"But you will try. Say that you will try because I have asked you."

He promised that he would, and then went his way, proud in his heart
at this solicitude. And how could he not be proud? was she not high
in rank, proud in character, beautiful withal, and the mother of
Clara Desmond? What sweeter friend could a man have; what counsellor
more potent to avert those dangers which now hovered round his head?

And as he rode home he was half in love with the countess. Where is
the young man who has not in his early years been half in love with
some woman older, much older than himself, who has half conquered his
heart by her solicitude for his welfare?--with some woman who has
whispered to him while others were talking, who has told him in such
gentle, loving tones of his boyish follies, whose tenderness and
experience together have educated him and made him manly? Young men
are so proud, proud in their inmost hearts, of such tenderness and
solicitude, as long as it remains secret and wrapt as it were in
a certain mystery. Such liaisons have the interests of intrigue,
without--I was going to say without its dangers. Alas! it may be that
it is not always so.

Owen Fitzgerald as he rode home was half in love with the countess.
Not that his love was of a kind which made him in any way desirous
of marrying her, or of kneeling at her feet and devoting himself to
her for ever; not that it in any way interfered with the other love
which he was beginning to feel for her daughter. But he thought with
p