he
entrance of the town. Of one thing she was certain, she could not
possibly suggest such an idea to her brother. She could imagine too well
his raised eyebrows and sarcastic words. She must wait until he had
broken all ties with the neighbourhood, and then she could come back
without consulting him. Her affianced husband's personality she kept as
much as possible in the background. He was to be her fellow in good
works, her superior in the skill and knowledge of a healer. She had only
seen him during her ministrations to the poor, only talked with him of
their needs and his own aspirations, had hardly looked on him as a being
in whom she could take a personal interest, until that moment in the
sunset when she had in the impulse of a moment linked her life to his.

A dread began to creep over her of seeing him again. How should she meet
him? Could she still keep him at a fitting distance? Would he not feel
that he had some claim upon her even now?

One morning, hearing wheels, she looked up from her half-hearted study
of an Irish grammar and saw the well-known car and the bony grey horse
appearing. To fly out by the back door, catching up her hat on the way
was the work of a second. She ran down the laurel walk, crossed the
stile, and was soon safely on her way to the Inchguile woods.

She was overtaken presently by a frieze-coated man, Martin Regan, who,
though an Inchguile tenant and out of her usual beat, she had met once
or twice, his bedridden father having sent to beg a visit from her.
Their holding was a poor one enough, but by constant hard work the son
had managed to keep things going. She knew the old woman who ruled in
the house was his stepmother, but had not noticed any want of harmony in
the family. Rumours, however, had reached her lately that the old man
had been making a will, by which he left the farm and all his
possessions to his wife, who had already written to recall her own son
from America to share the expected legacy with her.

These rumours came back to the mind of Louise Eden as she noticed the
trouble in Martin Regan's face.

"I was just going up to speak to your honour, miss," he said, "when I
seen you going through the gate, so I followed you to tell of the
trouble I'm in."

"Is what I have heard true, then?" asked Louise. "Surely your father
could not be so unjust as to leave the farm you have worked on so hard
away from you?"

"It's true indeed, miss," said Martin. "And I'm after