love that is grown to be a part of his
life.

"Is it any wonder that I am racked with fear? You are so beautiful, any
man must love you! And this Hunter--who is he, that he should take his
place in the house more like the master of it than a mere guest? And
what right has he to keep every one away from you?"

"Dear"--she laughs softly; she has such an exquisite laugh--liquid,
entrancing--"the man is ridiculous, I grant you. But then--so many men
are ridiculous!"

Is she laughing at him? The eyes raised to his have just a touch of
mockery in their lustrous depths, or he fancies they have. He is never
quite sure of her--this woman who holds him by so strong a tie. There
are times when he is driven half frantic by her "humor," just as there
are times when he thinks himself the happiest man on earth because she
loves him.

"We are all fools where a woman is concerned!" he says bluntly, and
walks to one of the windows, setting it wide open, and letting the wind
rush in with a shriek that makes Mrs. Dundas start in her chair.

"Oh, what a terrible night!" she says shivering. "I do not envy you
your ride over the bog, if you take that road."

"Of course I shall take it, as usual! Why not?"

She is looking at him, a curious anxiety in her drooping eyes.

"But Launce, is it safe as things are now?"

"Safe or not, I choose to take it," he says coldly.

"But Mr. Hunter was saying only to-day that you are too venturesome."

"Mr. Hunter is an Englishman and, if he is not misjudged, a spy; it is
only natural he should think so."

"A spy?" she repeats, paling a little and looking at him--she has
risen, and is standing with him before the open window--with eager,
questioning eyes. "Who says he is a spy?"

"More people than I could name are of that opinion."

"But do you think he is a spy, Launce?"

"Faith, I neither know nor care what he is! He is not a gentleman!
Anyone could see that with half an eye!"

She turns from him with a little passionate gesture, and her
face--though he cannot see it--looks for an instant almost cruel in its
anger.

"You are so fastidious, dear. We cannot all be Blakes of Donaghmore,
you know."

"We can all speak the truth, I hope, and the fellow doesn't even do
that."

"Ah!" she says coldly. "Then it would be useless to ask you to stay to
dinner and spend the evening in such company?"

It is what he has been longing to do; but something in her voice or her
face as she turns aside