ecame him to maintain his right by any
means--almost by any means, within his power. Give her up of his own
free will and voice! Say that Herbert Fitzgerald should take her with
his consent! that she should go as a bride to Castle Richmond, while
he stood by and smiled, and wished them joy! Never! And so he rode
away with a stern heart, leaving her standing there with something of
sternness about her heart also.

In the meantime, Clara, when she was sure that her rejected suitor
was well away from the place, put on her bonnet and walked out. It
was her wont at this time to do so; and she was becoming almost a
creature of habit, shut up as she was in that old dreary barrack. Her
mother very rarely went with her; and she habitually performed the
same journey over the same ground, at the same hour, day after day.
So it had been, and so it was still,--unless Herbert Fitzgerald were
with her.

On the present occasion she saw no more of her mother before she left
the house. She passed the drawing-room door, and seeing that it was
ajar, knew that the countess was there; but she had nothing to say to
her mother as to the late interview, unless her mother had aught to
say to her. So she passed on. In truth her mother had nothing to say
to her. She was sitting there alone, with her head resting on her
hand, with that sternness at her heart and a cloud upon her brow, but
she was not thinking of her daughter. Had she not, with her skill
and motherly care, provided well for Clara? Had she not saved her
daughter from all the perils which beset the path of a young girl?
Had she not so brought her child up and put her forth into the world,
that, portionless as that child was, all the best things of the world
had been showered into her lap? Why should the countess think more
of her daughter? It was of herself she was thinking; and of what her
life would be all alone, absolutely alone, in that huge frightful
home of hers, without a friend, almost without an acquaintance,
without one soul near her whom she could love or who would love her.
She had put out her hand to Owen Fitzgerald, and he had rejected it.
Her he had regarded merely as the mother of the woman he loved. And
then the Countess of Desmond began to ask herself if she were old and
wrinkled and ugly, only fit to be a dowager in mind, body, and in
name!

Over the same ground! Yes, always over the same ground. Lady Clara
never varied her walk. It went from the front entrance