"No; it was selfish—selfish in the extreme. Nothing but one thing could excuse me, and that excuse—"

excuse—"

"I'm sure you don't want any excuse, Mr. Fitzgerald."

"And that excuse, Clara, was this: that I love you with all my heart. I had not strength to see you there, and not long to have you near me—not begrudge that you should dance with another. I love you with all my heart and soul. There, Lady Clara, now you know it all."

The manner in which he made his declaration to her was almost fierce in its energy. He had stopped in the pathway, and she, unconscious of what she was doing, almost unconscious of what she was hearing, had stopped also. The mare, taking advantage of the occasion, was cropping the grass close to them. And so, for a few seconds, they stood in silence.

"Am I so bold, Lady Clara," said he, when those few seconds had gone by—"Am I so bold that I may hope for no answer?" But still she said nothing. In lieu of speaking she uttered a long sigh; and then Fitzgerald could hear that she was sobbing.

"Oh, Clara, I love you so fondly, so dearly, so truly!" said he in an altered voice and with sweet tenderness. "I know my own presumption in thus speaking. I know and feel bitterly the difference in our rank."

"I—care—nothing—for rank," said the poor girl, sobbing through her tears. He was generous, and she at any rate would not be less so. No; at that moment, with her scanty seventeen years of experience, with her ignorance of all that the world had in it of grand and great, of high and rich, she did care nothing for rank. That Owen Fitzgerald was a gentleman of good lineage, fit to mate with a lady, that she did know; for her mother, who was a proud woman, delighted to have him in her presence. Beyond this she cared for none of the conventionalities of life. Rank! If she waited for rank, where was she to look for friends who would love her? Earls and countesses, barons and their baronesses, were scarce there where fate had placed her, under the shadow of the bleak mountains of Muskerry. Her want, her undefined want, was that some one should love her. Of all men and women whom she had hitherto known, this Owen Fitzgerald was the brightest, the kindest, the gentlest in his manner, the most pleasant to look on. And now he was there at her feet, swearing that he loved her;—and then drawing back as it were in dread of her rank. What did she care for rank?

"Clara, Clara, 

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