jars upon him. As they stand there they can
hear the thud of horses' hoofs coming at a rapid pace down the Boyne
road--it is Mrs. Dundas's guests returning. It is getting dark fast
now, and the wind is already furious in its strength as it sweeps down
from the mountains.

"Do shut that window, Launce, or we shall have all the lamps blown out!"

He does her bidding mechanically; then he turns and looks at her
standing beside him in her pretty gown, the one woman, so he tells
himself, who is all in all to him.

Nearer and nearer come the hoof-beats; the precious moments are flying
fast; and if they are to make up their little quarrel to-night there is
no time to lose.

"I am going now, Kate. Am I to go like this?"

"You are so cross, Launce," she murmurs.

"Nay, give things their right names! Say I am jealous--madly jealous,
because I am in love!"

"Oh, if you are only jealous, dear----"

"You know I am as jealous as ever poor Othello was."

"And with as little cause," she whispered softly, nestling her cheek
against his shoulder.

The riders are at the gate now; in another minute they will be in the
house; taking her in his arms, Launce kisses her and lets her go.

"My darling, how could I live till to-morrow if we had parted in anger
now?" he whispers, looking at her with eager impassioned eyes.

Is it fancy, or does the face raised to his suddenly become harsh and
wan? He looks down at her, startled; but there is no time for
questions--the gentlemen are in the hall now, all talking and laughing
at once, it would appear, by the noise they make, and he must go.

A light rain is falling as he passes out at the gate; he will have to
walk home, for he sent his horse back by the groom more than an hour
ago. The road is intensely dark; but that is nothing to him--he knows
every inch of the way, just as he knows every inch of the dangerous
path across the bog which he will have to take to reach Donaghmore. In
spite of the wind there is a mist--a low clinging gray mist which hides
the fields, nay, the very hedgerows between which he walks, and carries
sounds--the bark of a dog, the shout of some lad out after his
cattle[,] even the echoes of steps far ahead of him on the road--in the
most marvelous manner. He is just turning aside to step down into the
bog path when a dim shape flits out, like a ghost, from the midst and
bars his way.

"Who is there?" he says gruffly. "What do you want?"

"Thank goodness, it'