to think, for his own purposes,"--he spoke with a weary air,--"that he
saved my life. He may have saved my beauty. He considers himself my
pensioner."

"Ah!" Lady O'Gara was satisfied with the explanation. "What a pity he
should drink! Can we do nothing for him?"

"I'm afraid not. He would like to be my game-keeper, but that is out
of the question. He had not much character when he left Ashbridge. He
has had more than one job in England since then, and has lost them all.
He has come down very much in the world even since I saw him last."

"A pity," said Lady O'Gara, "since he rendered you a service."

"I gave him some money and got rid of him: it was the only thing to do."

Once again Lady O'Gara's frank eyes turned upon her husband.

"I don't think you ever told me about that thing before," she said. "I
should have remembered if you had told me."

"No," he said with an averted face. "It happened--the winter you were
in Florence. I came home and was met by the news that you were away.
The sun dropped out of my skies."

She blushed suddenly and brightly. Her husband had turned from his
gloomy contemplation of the lawn outside, on which a tiny Kerry cow was
feeding. He said to himself that she was more beautiful in her mature
womanhood than the day he married her. She had been soft and flowing
even in her girlhood, with a promise of matronly beauty. Now, with a
greater amplitude, she was not less but more gracious. Her bronze hair
which had the faintest dust upon it went back from her temples and ears
in lovely waves which no art could have produced. It was live hair,
full of lights and shadows. Her husband had said that it was like a
brown Venetian glass with powdered gold inside its brownness. There
were a few brown freckles on the milk-white neck. Her eyes were kind
and faithful and set widely apart: her nose straight and short: and she
had a delightful smile.

She came now and put her arms about his neck. They were in curious
contrast, she so soft, fair and motherly: he slender and dark, with
weary eyes and a look as though he had suffered.

"Shawn!" she said, "Shawn!" and there was a passionate tenderness in
her voice, as she pressed his head against her heart.

Then she let her arms fall and turned away, looking as though some
sadness had clouded her joy.

"Poor Terence!" she said.

There was the same thought between them, but they left it unspoken.
She had chosen Shawn O'Gara i