s. O'Hara close to the
door. "My Lord," she said, "you are very welcome back to us. Indeed we
need you much. I will not upbraid you as you come to make atonement for
your fault. If you will let me I will love you as a son." As she spoke
she held his right hand in both of hers, and then she lifted up her face
and kissed his cheek.

He could not stay her words, nor could he refuse the kiss. And yet to
him the kiss was as the kiss of Judas, and the words were false words,
plotted words, pre-arranged, so that after hearing them there should be
no escape for him. But he would escape. He resolved again, even then,
that he would escape; but he could not answer her words at the moment.
Though Mrs. O'Hara held him by the hand, Kate still hung to his other
arm. He could not thrust her away from him. She still clung to him when
he released his right hand, and almost lay upon his breast when he
seated himself on the sofa. She looked into his eyes for tenderness, and
he could not refrain himself from bestowing upon her the happiness. "Oh,
mother," she said, "he is so brown;--but he is handsomer than ever." But
though he smiled on her, giving back into her eyes her own soft look of
love, yet he must tell his tale.

He was still minded that she should have all but the one thing,--all
if she would take it. She should not be Countess of Scroope; but in
any other respect he would pay what penalty might be required for his
transgression. But in what words should he explain this to those two
women? Mrs. O'Hara had called him by his title and had claimed him as
her son. No doubt she had all the right to do so which promises made by
himself could give her. He had sworn that he would marry the girl, and
in point of time had only limited his promise by the old Earl's life.
The old Earl was dead, and he stood pledged to the immediate performance
of his vow,--doubly pledged if he were at all solicitous for the honour
of his future bride. But in spite of all promises she should never be
Countess of Scroope!

Some tinkling false-tongued phrase as to lover's oaths had once passed
across his memory and had then sufficed to give him a grain of comfort.
There was no comfort to be found in it now. He began to tell himself,
in spite of his manhood, that it might have been better for him and for
them that he should have broken this matter to them by a well-chosen
messenger. But it was too late for that now. He had faced the priest and
had escaped from