Mrs. O’Hara had known that he would come, and Kate had known it; and, though it would be unfair to say that they were waiting for him, it is no more than true to say that they were ready for him. “We are so glad to see you again,” said Mrs. O’Hara.

“Not more glad than I am to find myself here once more.”

“So you dined and slept at Father Marty’s last night. What will the grand people say at the Castle?”

“As I sha’n’t hear what they say, it won’t matter much! Life is not long enough, Mrs. O’Hara, for putting up with disagreeable people.”

“Was it pleasant last night?”

“Very pleasant. I don’t think Father Creech is half as good as Father Marty, you know.”

“Oh no,” exclaimed Kate.

“But he’s a jolly sort of fellow, too. And there was a Mr. Finucane there,—a very grand fellow.”

“We know no one about here but the priests,” said Mrs. O’Hara, laughing. “Anybody might think that the cottage was a little convent.”

“Then I oughtn’t to come.”

“Well, no, I suppose not. Only foreigners are admitted to see convents sometimes. You’re going after the poor seals again?”

“Barney says the tide is too high for the seals now. We’re going to Drumdeirg.”

“What,—to those little rocks?” asked Kate.

“Yes,—to the rocks. I wish you’d both come with me.”

“I wouldn’t go in one of those canoes all out there for the world,” said Kate.

“What can be the use of it?” asked Mrs. O’Hara.

“I’ve got to get the feathers for Father Marty’s bed, you know. I haven’t shot as many yet as would make a pillow for a cradle.”

“The poor innocent gulls!”

“The poor innocent chickens and ducks, if you come to that, Miss O’Hara.”

“But they’re of use.”

“And so will Father Marty’s feather bed be of use. Good-bye, Mrs. O’Hara. Good-bye, Miss O’Hara. I shall be down again next week, and we’ll have that other seal.”

There was nothing in this. So far, at any rate, he had not broken his word to the priest. He had not spoken a word to Kate O’Hara that might not and would not have been said had the priest been present. But how lovely she was; and what a thrill ran through his arm as he held her hand in his for a moment. Where should he find a girl like that in England with such colour, such eyes, such hair, such innocence,—and then with so sweet a voice?

As he hurried down the hill to the beach at Coolroone, where Morony was to meet him with the boat, he could not keep himself from comparisons between Kate O’Hara and Sophie Mellerby. No doubt his comparisons were made very incorrectly,—and unfairly; but they were all in favour of the girl who lived out of the world in solitude on the cliffs of Moher. And why should he not be free to seek a wife where he pleased? In such an affair as that,—an affair of love in which the heart and the heart alone should be consulted, what right could any man have to dictate to him? Certain ideas occurred to him which his friends in England would have called wild, democratic, revolutionary and damnable, but which, owing perhaps to the Irish air and the Irish whiskey and the spirit of adventure fostered by the vicinity of rocks and ocean, appeared to him at the moment to be not only charming but reasonable also. No doubt he was born to high state and great rank, but nothing that his rank and state could give him was so sweet as his liberty. To be free to choose for himself in all things, was the highest privilege of man. What pleasure could he have in a love which should be selected for him by such a woman as his aunt? Then he gave the reins to some confused notion of an Irish bride, a wife who should be half a wife and half not,—whom he would love and cherish tenderly but of whose existence no English friend should be aware. How could he more charmingly indulge his spirit of adventure than by some such arrangement as this?

He knew that he had given a pledge to his uncle to contract no marriage that would be derogatory to his position. He knew also that he had given a pledge to the priest that he would do no harm to Kate O’Hara. He felt that he was bound to keep each pledge. As for that sweet, darling girl, would he not sooner lose his life than harm her? But he was aware that an adventurous life was always a life of difficulties, and that for such as live adventurous lives the duty of overcoming difficulties was of all duties the chief. Then he got into his canoe, and, having succeeded in killing two gulls on the Drumdeirg rocks, thought that for that day he had carried out his purpose as a man of adventure very well.

During February and March he was often on the coast, and hardly one visit did he make which was not followed by a letter from Castle Quin to Scroope Manor. No direct accusation of any special fault was made against him in consequence. No charge was brought of an improper hankering after any special female, because Lady Scroope found herself bound in conscience not to commit her correspondent; but very heavy injunctions were laid upon him as to his general conduct, and he was eagerly entreated to remember his great duty and to come home and settle himself in England. In the mean time the ties which bound him to the coast of Clare were becoming stronger and stronger every day. He had ceased now to care much about seeing Father Marty, and would come, when the tide was low, direct from Lahinch to the strand beneath the cliffs, from whence there was a path through the rocks up to Ardkill. And there he would remain for hours,—having his gun with him, but caring little for his gun. He told himself that he loved the rocks and the wildness of the scenery, and the noise of the ocean, and the whirring of the birds above and below him. It was certainly true that he loved Kate O’Hara.

“Neville, you must answer me a question,” said the mother to him one morning when they were out together, looking down upon the Atlantic when the wind had lulled after a gale.

“Ask it then,” said he.

“What is the meaning of all this? What is Kate to believe?”

“Of course she believes that I love her better than all the world besides,—that she is more to me than all the world can give or take. I have told her at least, so often, that if she does not believe it she is little better than a Jew.”

“You must not joke with me now. If you knew what it was to have one child and only that you would not joke with me.”

“I am quite in earnest. I am not joking.”

“And what is to be the end of it?”

“The end of it! How can I say? My uncle is an old man,—very old, very infirm, very good, very prejudiced, and broke............