whispered to her also what might too probably be the nature of that something. Could it be possible, she asked herself, that such a man as Owen Fitzgerald should fall in love with such a girl as her daughter Clara?

"What shall I say to mamma?" whispered Clara to him, as they all drew near together.

"Tell her everything."

"But, Patrick—"

"I will take him off with me if I can." And then they were all together, standing in the road.

"I was coming to obey your behests, Lady Desmond," said Fitzgerald, trying to look and speak as though he were at his ease.

"Coming rather tardily, I think," said her ladyship, not altogether playfully.

"I told him you wanted him, as we were crossing to the house," said the earl. "Didn't I, Owen?"

"Is anything the matter with Clara?" said Lady Desmond, looking at her daughter.

"No, mamma," said Clara; and she instantly began to sob and cry.

"What is it, sir?" And as she asked she turned to Fitzgerald; and her manner now at least had in it nothing playful.

"Lady Clara is nervous and hysterical. The excitement of the ball has perhaps been too much for her. I think, Lady Desmond, if you were to take her in with you it would be well."

Lady Desmond looked up at him; and he then saw, for the first time, that she could if she pleased look very stern. Hitherto her face had always worn smiles, had at any rate always been pleasing when he had seen it. He had never been intimate with her, never intimate enough to care what her face was like, till that day when he had carried her son up from the hall door to his room. Then her countenance had been all anxiety for her darling; and afterwards it had been all sweetness for her darling's friend. From that day to this present one, Lady Desmond had ever given him her sweetest smiles.

But Fitzgerald was not a man to be cowed by any woman's looks. He met hers by a full, front face in return. He did not allow his eye for a moment to fall before hers. And yet he did not look at her haughtily, or with defiance, but with an aspect which showed that he was ashamed of nothing that he had done,—whether he had done anything that he ought to be 

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