east, while the world went by.

But the next moment she had slipped away, and was sitting on the step,
her face in her hands.

He did not plead or excuse himself. He just stood by her endeavouring to
still and control his pulses--till at last she looked up. The lamp
shewed her his face, and the passion in it terrified her. For there had
been no passion in her soft and sudden yielding. Only the instinct of
the child that is forsaken and wants comforting, that feels love close
to it, and cannot refuse it.

'There, you see!' she said, desperately--'You see--I must go!'

'No! It's I who must go. Unless '--his voice sank almost to a
whisper--'Nelly!--couldn't you--marry me? You should never, never regret
it.'

She shook her head, and as she dropped her face again in her hands he
saw a shudder run through her. At the sight his natural impulse was to
let passion have its way, to raise her in his arms again, and whisper to
her there in the dark, as love inspired him, his cheek on hers. But he
did not venture. He was well aware of something intangible and
incalculable in Nelly that could not be driven. His fear of it held him
in check. He knew that she was infinitely sorry for him and tender
towards him. But he knew too that she was not in love with him. Only--he
would take his chance of that, if only she would marry him.

'Dear!' he said, stooping to her, and touching her dark curls with his
hand. 'Let's call in Hester! She's dreadfully wise! If you were with her
I should feel happy--I could wait. But it is when I see you so lonely
here--and so sad--nobody to care for you!--that I can't bear it!'

Through the rush of the wind, a sound of someone crossing the yard
behind the farm came to their ears. Nelly sprang to her feet and led the
way upstairs. Farrell followed her, and as they moved, they heard
Bridget open the back door and come in.

The little sitting-room was bright with lamp and fire, and Farrell,
perceiving that they were no longer to be alone, and momentarily
expecting Bridget's entrance, put impatience aside and began to talk of
his drive from Carton.

'The wind on Dunmail Raise was appalling, and the lamps got so
be-snowed, we had to be constantly clearing them. But directly we got
down into the valley it mended, and I managed to stop at the
post-office, and ask if there were any letters for you. There were
two--and a telegram. What have I done with them?' He began to search in
his pockets, his wits mean