trembled for her brother's life?
Was it only that morning that she had opened her eyes and known him
craven, unworthy of his name and race? Was it only that morning that
she had sent into peril the man who lay wan and moribund before her;
only that morning that she had felt her unhappiness greater than she
could bear, her difficulties insuperable, her loneliness a misery? For
if that were so why did she now feel so different? Why did she now feel
inexplicably relieved, inconceivably at ease, almost happy? Why, with
the man whom she had thrust into peril lying _in extremis_ before her,
and claiming all her gratitude, did she find her mind straying to
another? Finally, why, with her troubles the same, with her brother no
less dishonoured, were her thoughts neither with him nor with herself,
but with the man whose movements she watched, whose hands touched hers
in the work of tendance, whose voice once chid her sharply--and gave
her an odd pang of pleasure--who, low-toned, ordered her hither and
thither, and was obeyed?

She asked herself the question as she sat in the darkened room,
watching. And in the twilight she blushed. Once, at a crisis, Colonel
John had taken her roughly by the wrist and forced her to hold the
bandage so, while he twisted it. She looked at the wrist now, and,
fancying she could see the imprint of his fingers on it, she blushed
more deeply.

Presently there came, as they sat listening to the fluttering breath, a
low scratching at the door. At a sign from Colonel Sullivan, who sat on
the inner side of the bed, she stole to it and found Morty O'Beirne on
the threshold. He beckoned to her, and, closing the door, she followed
him downstairs, to where, in the living-room, she found the other
O'Beirne standing sheepishly beside the table.

"It's not knowing what to do, we are," Morty said.

He did not look at her, nor did his brother. Her heart sank. "What is
it?" she asked.

"The fiend's in the man," Morty replied, tapping with his fingers on
the table. "But--it's you will be telling her, Phelim."

"It's he that's not content," Phelim muttered. "The thief of the
world!"

"Curse him!" cried his brother.

"Not content?" she echoed. "Not content? After what he's done?" For an
instant her eyes flashed hot indignation, her very hair seemed to rise
about her head. Then the downcast demeanour of the two, their
embarrassment, their silence, told the story; and she gasped. "He's
for--fighting my brothe