ere is trouble
coming. Children, it is trouble that is coming to You. I look there,"
she went on, pointing to the place where a ray of sunlight poured
slanting into the room, "and I see my husband in the heavenly light. He
bows his head in grief, and he points his unerring hand at You. George
and Mary, you are consecrated to each other! Be always worthy of your
consecration; be always worthy of yourselves." She paused. Her voice
faltered. She looked at us with softening eyes, as those look who know
sadly that there is a parting at hand. "Kneel!" she said, in low tones
of awe and grief. "It may be the last time I bless you--it may be the
last time I pray over you, in this house. Kneel!"

We knelt close together at her feet. I could feel Mary's heart
throbbing, as she pressed nearer and nearer to my side. I could feel my
own heart quickening its beat, with a fear that was a mystery to me.

"God bless and keep George and Mary, here and hereafter! God prosper,
in future days, the union which God's wisdom has willed! Amen. So be it.
Amen."

As the last words fell from her lips the cottage door was thrust open.
My father--followed by the bailiff--entered the room.

Dame Dermody got slowly on her feet, and looked at him with a stern
scrutiny.

"It has come," she said to herself. "It looks with the eyes--it will
speak with the voice--of that man."

My father broke the silence that followed, addressing himself to the
bailiff.

"You see, Dermody," he said, "here is my son in your cottage--when he
ought to be in my house." He turned, and looked at me as I stood with
my arm round little Mary, patiently waiting for my opportunity to speak.
"George," he said, with the hard smile which was peculiar to him,
when he was angry and was trying to hide it, "you are making a fool of
yourself there. Leave that child, and come to me."

Now, or never, was my time to declare myself. Judging by appearances,
I was still a boy. Judging by my own sensations, I had developed into a
man at a moment's notice.

"Papa," I said, "I am glad to see you home again. This is Mary Dermody.
I am in love with her, and she is in love with me. I wish to marry her
as soon as it is convenient to my mother and you."

My father burst out laughing. Before I could speak again, his humor
changed. He had observed that Dermody, too, presumed to be amused. He
seemed to become mad with anger, all in a moment.

"I have been told of this infernal tomfoolery," he s