"Yes; and he meant it--he means it now, if he could but say as much."

"I thank you for telling me * * * Let us sit down here on this rustic
seat. Do you know, I believe your father has gotten over his first
dislike for me."

"O, yes, he has. I think he likes you very much."

"I was not surprised at his actions when I told him I was a 'Mormon.' He
can hardly be blamed, in view of the life-long training he has had. And
then, knowing that you have been in danger from that source before made
him over-sensitive on the point. I marvel now that he treats me so
well."

Lucy looked her happiness, rather than expressed it. The guide book lay
open on her lap. Chester picked it up, looked at a picture of Blarney
Castle, and then read aloud:

"'There's gravel walk there,
For speculation,
And conversation
In sweet solitude.
'Tis there the lover
May hear the dove, or
The gentle plover
In the afternoon.'

"Lucy," said Chester, as he closed the book, "I'm going to call you
Lucy--I can't call you Miss Strong in such a lovely place as this. We
have an hour or two before we must return, and I want to talk over a few
matters while we have the chance. In the first place, I want you to tell
me where you are going when you leave Ireland. I want to keep track of
you--I don't want to lose you. If your father would not object, I should
like to travel along with you."

"Father may remain here a long time, so long that we may not get to see
much of Europe, and of course, you can't wait here for us."

"Now listen, Lucy. _You_ are Europe to me. I believe you are the whole
world."

She did not turn from him, though she looked down to the grass where the
point of her sunshade now rested. Her face was diffused with color.

"Forgive me for saying so much," he continued, "for I realize I am quite
a stranger to you."

"A stranger?" she asked.

"Yes; we have not known each other long. You don't know much about me."

"I seem to have known you a long time," she said, looking up. "I often
think I have met you before. Sometimes I imagine you look like the
young missionary whom I first heard on the streets of Kansas City; but
of course, that can't be."

"No; I never was on a mission. But I'm glad you think of me as you do,
for then you'll let me come and see you in London, in Paris and wherever
you go. I assure you, it would be rather uninteresting sight-seeing
without your presence, if not always