or three other young men, had been there, and that all had been
talking the most violent politics, their fears for Terence's morality
would have increased rather than diminished.

As it is, they are well pleased.

"But why didn't you say that at once, my dear boy? We are so afraid of
your mixing with evil companions."

Terence thinks of the smith's son, and his unqualified opinion that all
landlords and aristocrats and sovereigns should be "stamped out," and
wonders if _he_ would come under the category of evil companions, but he
wisely refrains from speech.

"And," says Miss Penelope, softly, "why didn't you tell us before
leaving the house where you were going? I am sure, if you had, both your
aunt Priscilla and I would have been delighted _to go with you_, busy
though we were."

This is the climax. Again in Terence's fevered imagination the smith's
son arises, wielding his brawny brown arm like a sledge-hammer, as he
noisily lays down the laws of extermination: he can see himself, too,
joining in the fray, and defying the smith's son's opinion with an
eloquence of which he had been only proud. He feels he is deceiving
these two old ladies, and is angry with himself for doing it, and still
more angry with them for making him do it.

"I am glad we have heard the truth at _last_, Terence," says Miss
Priscilla. "There is nothing so mean or contemptible as a lie."

"You are enough to make _any_ fellow tell a lie," bursts out Terence,
with miserable rage, "with your questionings and pryings!"

At this awful speech, the two Misses Blake burst into tears, and Terence
dashes in a fury from the room.

CHAPTER XVI.

How the afternoon at Moyne proves a great success--How Olga Bohun is
led into a half confession, and how Monica, growing restless, seeks
a dubious solitude.

"It is quite the loveliest old place in the world!" says Mrs. Bohun, in
her soft plaintive voice, speaking very enthusiastically. "We ought to
be more than grateful to you, dear Miss Blake, for letting us see it."

Miss Priscilla reddens with suppressed satisfaction but says,--

"Tut tut, my dear! It is only a funny old-fashioned spot, after all," in
quite an off-hand manner.

It is Friday,--_the_ Friday,--as the Misses Blake have been thinking of
it for days, in fear and trembling, as being the date of their first
hospitable venture for many years.

All the Aghyohillbeg party, and the men from Clonbree Barracks, and some
other