have it
to-day, so here I am, and here is the letter. Where is he?"

"Oh!" cried the girl, clasping her hands upon her heart, her voice
growing soft, and her eyes dim with a sudden mist. "I am so thankful!
I am so glad!" The change in her voice and in her eyes so affected Mr.
Martin that he put his hands resolutely behind his back lest they should
play him tricks, and should, without his will, get themselves round her
and draw her close to his heart.

"So am I," he said, "awfully glad! Never was so glad in all my life!" He
was more conscious than ever of bewilderment and perplexity in the midst
of increasing problems that complicated themselves with mist brown eyes,
trembling lips, and a voice of such pathetic cadences as aroused in
him an almost uncontrollable desire to exercise his utmost powers of
comfort. And all the while there was growing in his heart a desperate
anxiety as to what would be the final issue of these bewildering desires
and perplexities; when at the extremity of his self-control he was saved
by the girl's suggestion.

"Let us go and find my brother."

"Oh, yes!" cried Martin, "for heaven's sake let us."

"Wait until I get my hat."

"Oh! I wouldn't put on a hat," cried he in dismay.

"Why?" enquired the girl, looking at him with surprised curiosity.

"Oh! because--because you don't need one; it's so beautiful and sunny,
you know." In spite of what he could do Mr. Martin's eyes kept wandering
to her hair.

"Oh, well!" cried Moira, in increasing surprise at this strange young
man, "the sun won't hurt me, so come, let us go."

Together they went down the avenue of rugged firs. At the highway
she paused. Before them lay the Glen in all the splendid sweep of its
beauty.

"Isn't it lovely!" she breathed.

"Lovely!" echoed Martin, his eyes not on the Glen. "It is so sunny, you
know."

"Yes," she answered quickly, "you notice that?"

"How could I help it?" said Martin, his eyes still resting upon her.
"How could I?"

"Of course," she replied, "and so we call it the Glen Cuagh Oir, that
is the 'Glen of the Cup of Gold.' And to think he has to leave it all
to-morrow!" she added.

The pathetic cadences in her voice again drove Martin to despair. He
recovered himself, however, to say, "But he is going to Canada!"

"Yes, to Canada. And we all feel it so dreadfully for him, and," she
added in a lower voice, "for ourselves."

Had it been yesterday Martin would have been ready with scorn for