"What missage?"
"Oh father! don't make me speak! We are not alone! Let me tell you, alone! I am only a girl—and it is hard to speak."
His voice had a tear in it, for all its sternness, as he answered:—
"It is on a subject that this gentleman has spoke to me about—as mayhap he has spoke to you."
"Oh father!"—she took his hand, which he did not withdraw, and, bending over, kissed it and hugged it to her breast. "Oh father! what have I done that you should seem to mistrust me? You have always trusted me; trust me now, and don't make me speak till we are alone!"
I could not be silent any longer. My blood began to boil, that she I loved should be so distressed—whatsoever the cause, and at the hands of whomsoever, even her father.
"Mr. Joyce, you must let me speak! You would speak yourself to save pain to a woman you loved." He turned to tell me to be silent, but suddenly stopped; I went on:—"Norah," he winced as I spoke her name, "is entirely blameless. I met her quite by chance at the top of Knocknacar when I went to see the view. I did not know who she was—I had not the faintest suspicion; but from that moment I loved her. I went next day, and waited all day in the chance of seeing her; I did see her, but again came away in ignorance even of her name. I sought her again, day after day, day after
