ere suffering--that if I had not acted so foolishly that night you
would not have been shot? Oh, I think of it sometimes till it almost
turns my brain!"

It is an exquisite April day, the air is keen and sweet here in the
heart of the old-fashioned garden, full of the odor of budding leaves
and freshly-turned earth, mingled with the perfume of the great
lilac-trees, which are one mass of bloom.

To Honor's Celtic beauty-loving nature such a day as this is full of
delights; it soothes her.

"If you have forgotten me," she says more calmly, "for all the pain I
brought upon you, I have never forgiven myself."

"I don't know that I have forgiven you," he says, looking at her almost
sternly. "There are things a man like me finds it hard to forgive; but
as for that stray bullet--it was a mere accident--I have never blamed
you in the least for that."

"Then what else had you to forgive me for?"

He laughs, and moves a little way from her--a restless black figure
among all his morning freshness.

"Oh, we won't talk of it!" he says, almost awkwardly. "I was a fool to
come back, though, and, by Jove, I ought to have known it!"

"No, you are not a fool," the girl answers bitterly; "but you are
certainly the worst-tempered man I ever met."

"Thank you for your good opinion!"

"You are welcome; it's an honest opinion so far as it goes. And now we
had better go in; you will want something to eat, and you are tired, I
dare say."

"Yes, I am tired of a good many things," he replies, with a short laugh.

They walk together back to the house, between the beds of early
wall-flowers and the Lent lilies nodding in the sunshine.

"I suppose I ought to congratulate you, Honor."

"Congratulate me," the girl repeats, looking at him with some surprise;
then a sudden thought comes to her, and she smiles; but he does not see
the smile.

"Yes--on your engagement to this fellow from Dublin. He is very rich, I
hear."

"Immensely rich," the girl agrees calmly. "And then he is clever too;
he writes--I'm sure I don't know what he writes; but he is literary."

"I'm glad you think so highly of him, and I hope you will be happy," he
says after a pause.

"Thanks. I could do with a little happiness for a change, you know!
I've not had too much of it in my life, have I?"

"And yet you ought to be happy, if ever a woman ought! You are young
and beautiful--I think sometimes you hardly know how beautiful you are;
and perhaps that is your