ibing a
double motive to her, or of imagining any object in what she counselled but
the avowed one, gave her a pride that accompanied her through every hour of
life.

'Last of all, she believed in _me_--believed I was going to be one day
something very famous and distinguished: a gallant soldier, whose very
presence gave courage to the men who followed him, and with a name repeated
in honour over Europe. The day was too short for these fancies, for they
grew actually as we fed them, and the wildest flight of imagination led us
on to the end of the time when there would be but one hope, one ambition,
and one heart between us.

'I am convinced that had any one at that time hinted to her that I was to
inherit the O'Shea estates, he would have dealt a most dangerous blow to
her affection for me. The romance of that unknown future had a great share
in our compact. And then we were so serious about it all--the very gravity
it impressed being an ecstasy to our young hearts in the thought of
self-importance and responsibility. Nor were we without our little
tiffs--those lovers' quarrels that reveal what a terrible civil war can
rage within the heart that rebels against itself. I know the very spot
where we quarrelled; I could point to the miles of way we walked side by
side without a word; and oh! was it not on that very bed I have passed the
night sobbing till I thought my heart would break, all because I had not
fallen at her feet and begged her forgiveness ere we parted? Not that she
was without her self-accusings too; for I remember one way in which she
expressed sorrow for having done me wrong was to send me a shower of
rose-leaves from her little terraced garden; and as they fell in shoals
across my window, what a balm and bliss they shed over my heart! Would I
not give every hope I have to bring it all back again? to live it over once
more--to lie at her feet in the grass, affecting to read to her, but
really watching her long black lashes as they rested on her cheek, or that
quivering lip as it trembled with emotion. How I used to detest that work
which employed the blue-veined hand I loved to hold within my own, kissing
it at every pause in the reading, or whenever I could pretext a reason to
question her! And now, here I am in the self-same place, amidst the same
scenes and objects. Nothing changed but _herself_! She, however, will
remember nothing of the past, or if she does, it is with repugnance and
regret; her ma