with the curious tenderness that was between the two, and with an arm
on his shoulder, drew his secret from him. When he had told it he put
his face down on the mantelpiece by which they were standing, ashamed
to look O'Donnell in the face because they loved the same woman. There
was a minute's silence, and then O'Donnell spoke, and his voice, so
far from being cold and angry, was more tender than before.

'So you would have taken yourself off to leave me a clear field, old
fellow!'

'Oh, no,' said the other humbly, 'I never had a chance. If I had had
eyes for any one but her, I would have known your secret, and should
not have dared to love her.'

'Dear lad!' said O'Donnell. 'But now you must take your chance. If she
chooses you rather than me--and, by heavens! I'm not sure that she
won't--it will make no difference, I swear, between us. Which of us
shall try our luck first?'

They ended by drawing lots, and it fell to O'Donnell to speak first. A
night or two later he overtook James Rooney as the latter was on his
way to Ellen's house. He put his arm through Rooney's and said,
'Well, old fellow, I've had my dismissal. I'm not going your way
to-night, but I believe your chance is worth a good deal. Presently I
shall be able to wish you joy, Jim.'

They walked on together in a silence more full of feeling than speech
could be. At the boreen that turned up to the white house they parted
with a hand-clasp that said their love was unchanging, no matter what
happened. That night James Rooney got his chance and spoke. The girl
heard him with a rapt, absent-minded look that chilled him as he went
on. When he had done she answered him:--

'I can never be your wife, Jim. I have made my choice.'

'But----' stammered the lad.

'I know what you would say,' she answered quietly. 'I gave the same
answer to Maurice O'Donnell. Why did two such men as you care for me?
I am not worth it, no girl is worth it. 'Tis the proud woman I ought
to be and am, but I can't marry the two of you, and perhaps I can't
choose.' She laughed half sadly. 'Put me out of your head, Jim, and
forgive me. I'm away to the Convent at Lady Day.'

And from this resolve it was impossible to move her. Whether she had
really resolved before on the conventual life, or whether she feared
to separate the two friends, no one knew. From that time neither
O'Donnell nor Jim Rooney was seen at the white house, and in the
harvest-time Ellen, as she said she would,