ter. Perhaps he
entertained some secret doubts that my mother's marriage might one day
or other admit of proof; perhaps he felt some touch of gratitude for
the treatment his daughter had experienced when a guest at Castle Carew.
Indeed, he spoke of this to the Count with pride and satisfaction.
Whatever the reasons, he used the greatest and most delicate reserve
in alluding to my mother's situation, and told De Gabriac that the
proceedings, however rigorous they might appear, were common in such
cases, and that when my mother had sufficiently recovered herself to
give detailed information as to the circumstances of her marriage, there
would be ample time and opportunity to profit by the knowledge. He went
even further, and suggested that for the present he wished to place his
little cottage at the Killeries at her disposal, until such time as
she could fix upon a residence more to her taste. In fact, both his
explanations and his offers were made so gracefully and so kindly that
De Gabriac assented at once, and promised to come to dinner on the
following day to complete all the arrangements.

When MacNaghten came to hear of the plan, he was overjoyed, not only
because it offered a home to my mother in her houseless destitution, but
as evidencing a kind spirit on Fagan's part, from which he augured
most favorably. In fact, the arrangement, while relieving them from
all present embarrassment, suggested also future hope; and it was now
determined that while De Gabriac was to accompany my mother to the far
west, Dan himself was to set out for France, with a variety of letters
which might aid him in tracing out the story of my father's marriage.

It was at an humble little hotel in Stafford Street, a quaint old house
called "The Hart," that they passed the last evening together before
separating. Polly Fagan came over to drink tea with my mother, and they
chatted away in sombre mood till past midnight. MacNaghten was to sail
with an early tide, and they agreed to sit up till it should be his time
to depart. Often and often have I heard Dan speak of that evening. Every
incident of it made an impression upon his memory quite disproportioned
to their non-importance, and he has taken pains even to show me where
each of them sat. The corner where my mother's chair stood is now
before me, and I fancy I can bring up her pale young widow's face,
tear-furrowed and sad, trying to look interested where, with all her
efforts, her wande