e is Honor?" her father asks fretfully; and then, as time goes on
and she does not come in, he says again, "Where can Honor be?"

"I will go and find her for you," Brian says at last--he can bear the
suspense no longer. "She cannot have strayed very far. I was talking to
her a while ago."

He speaks lightly enough, but his heart is not light. A curious
depression has come upon him. It seems to him that his love for this
girl has died, and that half the brightness of his life has died along
with it. He has not the least idea in what direction to begin his
search.

The heavy iron gates at the end of the avenue are closed, but not
locked, and he opens them and walks out into the high-road. Once, as he
passes a narrow lane, he fancies he hears a slight rustle in the bushes
that grow close and low at the side of the path; but, when he stops to
listen, he can hear nothing, and so sets it down to fancy.

"Surely she has not gone into the village on a night like this," he
says to himself at last, daunted by his want of success; and at the
bare surmise he feels his face burn hotly.

Turning, he walks rapidly back--for the village lies in the opposite
direction, past Donaghmore--and, as he comes near the gates, he is
startled to see a car drawn up by the side of the high wall, and
evidently waiting for somebody.

The driver has been standing beside his horse, and at the sound of
Brian's step he leads the animal slowly forward. Apparently he does not
wish to be seen; and indeed he might easily escape the notice of any
one less quick of sight than Brian Beresford.

"Hallo!" Brian shouts; but he receives no answer; and, taking a stride
or two, he gains the horse's side. The man walks on the other side of
the animal, close by the wall; and, what with the darkness and the way
his hat is pulled down over his eyes, his own mother might be pardoned
for not recognizing him.

"Whose car is this?" Brian demands sternly, "and for whom are you
waiting here?"

"Sorrer a sowl I'm waiting for, your honor! The best face in Derry
wouldn't tempt me this minute. I'm just dead beat meself--and the
baste! It's to Boyne Fair we've been this day, and a terrible time
entoirely we've had of it."

Brian looks at the man and stops. He seems to be speaking the truth;
and, if he is not, Brian knows the Irish peasant too well by this time
to expect to force it from him.

With a short "Good-night," he turns away, and the man looks after him
with