ters were the great pleasures of
my life. I thought over and over again of those last words of
yours, and I had some hope that, when I came back, I might say to
you:

"'Dear Mary, I am grateful, indeed, that you are my cousin, and not
my sister. A sister is a very dear relation, but there is one
dearer still.'

"Don't be afraid, dear; I am not going to say so now. Of course,
that is over, and I hope that I shall come, in time, to be content
to think of you as a sister."

"You are very foolish, Terence," she said, almost with a laugh, "as
foolish as you were at Coimbra. Do you think that I should have
said what I did, then, if I had not meant it? Did you not save me,
at the risk of your life, from what would have been worse than
death? Have you not been my hero, ever since? Have you not been the
centre of our thoughts here, the great topic of our conversation?
Have not your father and I been as proud as peacocks, when we read
of your rapid promotion, and the notices of your gallant conduct?
And do you think that it would make any difference to me, if you
had come back with both your legs and arms shot off?

"No, dear. I am just as dissatisfied with the relationship you
propose as I was three years ago, and it must be either cousin
or--" and she stopped.

She was standing up beside him, now.

"Or wife," he said, taking up her hand. "Is it possible you mean
wife?"

Her face was a sufficient answer, and he drew her down to him.

"You silly boy!" she said, five minutes afterwards. "Of course, I
thought of it all along. I never made any secret of it to your
father. I told him that our escape was like a fairy tale, and that
it must have the same ending: 'and they married, and lived happy
ever after.' He would never have let me have my way with the house,
had I not confided in him. He said that I could spend my money as I
pleased, on myself, but that not one penny should be laid out on
his house; and I was obliged to tell him.

"I am afraid I blushed furiously, as I did so, but I had to say:

"'Don't you see, Uncle?'--of course, I always called him uncle,
from the first, though he is only a cousin--'I have quite made up
my mind that it will be my house, some day; and the money may just
as well be laid out on it now, to make it comfortable; instead of
waiting till that time comes.'"

"What did my father say?"

"Oh, he said all sorts of nonsense, just the sort of thing that you
Irishmen always do say! That he ha