er, he did it with his arm
round her waist, so that she could look into his face and smile as she
promised that she would be good and follow his behests in all things. He
had been telling her now of some fault in her dress, and she had been
explaining that such faults would come when money was so scarce. Then he
had offered her gifts. A gift she would of course take. She had already
taken gifts which were the treasures of her heart. But he must not pay
things for her till,--till--. Then she again looked up into his face and
smiled. "You are not angry with me?" she said.

"Kate,--I want to ask you a particular question."

"What question?"

"You must not suppose, let the answer be what it may, that it can make
any difference between you and me."

"Oh,--I hope not," she replied trembling.

"It shall make none," he answered with all a master's assurance and
authority. "Therefore you need not be afraid to answer me. Tidings have
reached me on a matter as to which I ought to be informed."

"What matter? Oh Fred, you do so frighten me. I'll tell you anything I
know."

"I have been told that--that your father--is alive." He looked down
upon her and could see that her face was red up to her very hair. "Your
mother once told me that she had never been certain of his death."

"I used to think he was dead."

"But now you think he is alive?"

"I think he is;--but I do not know. I never saw my father so as to
remember him; though I do remember that we used to be very unhappy when
we were in Spain."

"And what have you heard lately? Tell me the truth, you know."

"Of course I shall tell you the truth, Fred. I think mother got a
letter, but she did not shew it me. She said just a word, but nothing
more. Father Marty will certainly know if she knows."

"And you know nothing?"

"Nothing."

"I think I must ask Father Marty."

"But will it matter to you?" Kate asked.

"At any rate it shall not matter to you," he said, kissing her. And
then again she was happy; though there had now crept across her heart
the shadow of some sad foreboding, a foretaste of sorrow that was not
altogether bitter as sorrow is, but which taught her to cling closely
to him when he was there and would fill her eyes with tears when she
thought of him in his absence.

On this day he had not found Mrs. O'Hara at the cottage. She had gone
down to Liscannor, Kate told him. He had sent his boat back to the
strand near that village, round the point