d not lost your friendship."
She added, "I should also be glad to hear news of you and what you are
doing, if ever you have the time to spare."

"I may write?" he exclaimed eagerly.

"Yes," she answered, and his eagerness made her linger a little
doubtfully upon the word. "That is, if you think it fair. I mean, it
might be best for you, perhaps, to get rid of me entirely from your
thoughts;" and Durrance laughed and without any bitterness, so that in a
moment Ethne found herself laughing too, though at what she laughed she
would have discovered it difficult to explain. "Very well, write to me
then." And she added drily, "But it will be about--other things."

And again Durrance read into her words the interpretation he desired;
and again she meant just what she said, and not a word more.

She stood where he left her, a tall, strong-limbed figure of womanhood,
until he was gone out of sight. Then she climbed down to the house, and
going into her room took one of her violins from its case. But it was
the violin which Durrance had given to her, and before she had touched
the strings with her bow she recognised it and put it suddenly away from
her in its case. She snapped the case to. For a few moments she sat
motionless in her chair, then she quickly crossed the room, and, taking
her keys, unlocked a drawer. At the bottom of the drawer there lay
hidden a photograph, and at this she looked for a long while and very
wistfully.

Durrance meanwhile walked down to the trap which was waiting for him at
the gates of the house, and saw that Dermod Eustace stood in the road
with his hat upon his head.

"I will walk a few yards with you, Colonel Durrance," said Dermod. "I
have a word for your ear."

Durrance suited his stride to the old man's faltering step, and they
walked behind the dog-cart, and in silence. It was not the mere personal
disappointment which weighed upon Durrance's spirit. But he could not
see with Ethne's eyes, and as his gaze took in that quiet corner of
Donegal, he was filled with a great sadness lest all her life should be
passed in this seclusion, her grave dug in the end under the wall of the
tiny church, and her memory linger only in a few white cottages
scattered over the moorland, and for a very little while. He was
recalled by the pressure of Dermod's hand upon his elbow. There was a
gleam of inquiry in the old man's faded eyes, but it seemed that speech
itself was a difficulty.

"You have news f