that rascally groom of yours. He's
got a skinful that will keep him quiet, or I'm mistaken!"

"Father," the girl whispers faintly, "some one was in it last night
who--who must be saved at any price. It would kill me, I
think"--pantingly--"if harm came to him."

Her father's face, as he listens, has grown as hard as a face cut out
of granite; and she knows, before a word is spoken, that her plea has
fallen upon deaf ears.

"They must take their chance," he says grimly; "I would not stir a
finger to save the life of any one of them."

Honor knows that there is no more to be said; but as she sinks back
among her pillows, a passionate determination to save this man whom she
loves rises in her heart. But does she love him? He has been very dear
to her all her life; but now a great gulf has opened between them--they
can never be to each other as they have been. The past is as dead as
the love that made it so bright and so beautiful; but, for the sake of
that dead past, she feels that she must save him from the consequence
of this mad folly into which he has been led or driven.

The birds are singing, now, the sky has grown suddenly rosy, and the
new day is as calm and bright as the night was wild and stormy. But to
Honor Blake no peace comes, no brightness. It seems to her she shall
never know peace again.

As she is turning into the morning-room, a heavy step on the tiled
floor makes her look round; and Launce stands before her. With a glad
cry the girl flies to him.

"Oh, Launce," she sobs, "we thought you were shot last night; and
we----"

But he stops her almost impatiently.

"And what happened here last night? What is the meaning of that--and
that?"--pointing at bullet-holes in the walls and the door.

"Why, Launce, have you not heard?"

"I have heard nothing," he says shortly, "about Donaghmore."

She looks at him wonderingly--at his soiled dress, his haggard face and
fierce eyes, so unlike the face and eyes of her favorite brother.

"Where have you been all night, Launce? And what has happened to make
you look so dreadfully ill and--and strange?"

He has followed her into the morning-room and closed the door behind
them.

"I have been to Drum with the body of that fellow who was shot on the
moss."

"Oh, Launce, who was he?"

He sinks down upon a chair before he answers her--a man tired in body
and mind. Utterly worn out he looks now in the clear strong light.

"He was Mrs. Dundas's friend and gu