"Not one kind word at parting? Well, I am better than you; here's my hand." And she held out her fair and taper fingers towards him.

"Fiend,--not woman!" was his muttered expression as he turned away.

"And a pleasant journey," said she, as if finishing a speech; while turning, she gave her hand to Agincourt "Yes, to be sure, you may take a boy's privilege, and give me a kiss at parting," said she; while the youth, blushing a deep crimson, availed himself of the permission.

"There they go," said Sir William, as the horses rattled down the avenue; "and a finer boy and a grumpier companion it has rarely been my lot to meet with. A thousand pardons, my dear Mrs. Morris, if he is a friend of yours."

"I knew him formerly," said she, coldly. "I can't say I ever liked him."

"I remember his name," said Sir William, in a sort of hesitating way; "there was some story or other about him,--either his wife ran away, or he eloped with somebody's wife."

"I 'm sure it must have been the former," said Mrs. Morris, laughing.

"Poor gentleman, he does not give one the impression of a Lothario.

But whom have we here? The O'Shea, I declare! Look to your heart, May dearest; take my word for it, he never turned out so smartly without dreams of conquest" Mr. O'Shea cantered up at the same moment, followed by Joe in a most accurate "get up" as groom, and, dismounting, advanced, hat in hand, to salute the party.

There are blank days in this life of ours in which even a pleasant visitor is a bore,--times in which dulness and seclusion are the best company, and it is anything but a boon to be broken in upon. It was the O'Shea's evil fortune to have fallen on one of these. It was in vain he recounted his club gossip about politics and party to Sir William; in vain he told Mrs. Morris the last touching episode of town scandal; in vain, even, did he present a fresh bouquet of lily-of-the-valley to May: each in turn passed him on to the other, till he found himself alone with Clara, who sat sorrowfully over the German lesson Layton was wont to help her with.

"What's the matter with you all?" cried he, half angrily, as he walked the room from end to end. "Has there any misfortune happened?"

"Charley has left us, Agincourt is just gone, the pleasant house is broken up; is not that enough to make us sad?" said she, sorrowfully.

"If you ever read Tommy Moore, you 'd know it was only another reason to make the most of the friends that were left behind," said he, adjusting his cravat at the glass, and giving himself a leer of knowing recognition. "That's the time of day, Clara!"

She looked at him, somewhat puzzled to know whether he had alluded to his sentiment, his whiskers, which he was now caressing, or the French clock on the mantelpiece.

"Is that one of Layton's?" said he, carelessly turning oyer a water-colored sketch of a Lucchese landscape.

"Yes," said she, replacing it carefully in a portfolio.

"He won't do many more of them, I suspect."

"How so?--why?--what do you mean?" cried she, grasping his arm, while a death-like paleness spread over her features.

"Just that he's going as fast as he can. What's the mischief! is it fainting she is?"

With a low, weak sigh, the girl had relaxed her hold, and, staggering backwards, sunk senseless on the floor. O'Shea tugged violently at the bell: the servant rushed in, and immediately after Mrs. Morris herself; but by this time Clara had regained consciousness, and was able to utter a few words.

"I was telling her of Layton's being so ill," began he, in a whisper, to Mrs. Morris.

"Of course you were," said she, pettishly. "For an inconvenience or an indiscretion, what can equal an Irishman?"

The speech was uttered as she led her daughter away, leaving the luckless O'Shea alone to ruminate over the politeness.

"There it is!" cried he, indignantly. "From the 'Times' down to the Widow Morris, it's the same story,--the Irish! the Irish!--and it's no use fighting against it. Smash the Minister in Parliament, and you 'll be told it was a speech more adapted to an Irish House of Commons; break the Sikh squares with the bayonet, and the cry is 'Tipperary tactics.'

Isn't it a wonder how we bear it! I ask any man, did he ever hear of patience like ours?"

It was just as his indignation had reached this crisis that May Leslie hurriedly came into the room to search for a locket Clara had dropped when she fainted. While O'Shea assisted her in her search, he bethought whether the favorable moment had not arrived to venture on the great question of his own fate. It was true, he was still smarting under a national disparagement; but the sarcasm gave a sort of reckless energy to his purpose, and he mattered, "Now, or never, for it!"

"I suppose it was a keepsake," said he, as he peered under the tables after the missing object.

"I believe so. At least, the poor child attaches great value to it."

"Oh dear!" sighed O'Shea. "If it was an old bodkin that was given me by one I loved, I 'd go through fire and water to get possession of it."

"Indeed!" said she, smiling at the unwonted energy of the protestation.

"I would," repeated he, more solemnly. "It's not the value of the thing itself I 'd ever think of. There's the ring was wore by my great-grandmother Ram, of Ram's Mountain; and thongh it's a rose-amethyst, worth three hundred guineas, it's only as a family token it has merit in my eyes."

Now this speech, discursive though it seemed, was artfully intended by the Honorable Member, for while incidentally throwing out claims to blood and an ancestry, it cunningly insinuated what logicians call the _a fortiori_,--how the man who cared so much for his grandmother would necessarily adore his wife.

"We must give it up, I see," said May. "She has evidently not lost it here."

"And it was a heart, you say!" sighed the Member.

"Yes, a little golden heart with a ruby clasp."

"Oh dear! And to think that I've lost my own in the self-same spot"

"Yours! Why, had you a locket too?"

"No, my angel!" cried he, passionately, as he clasped her hand, and fell on his knee before her, "but my heart,--a heart that lies under your feet this minute! There, don't turn away,--don't! May I never, if I know what's come over me these two months back! Night or day, it is the one image is always before me,--one voice always in my ears."

"How tiresome that must be!" said she, laughing merrily. "There, pray let go my hand; this is only folly, and not in very good taste, either."

"Folly, you call it? Love is madness, if you like. Out of this spot I 'll never stir till I know my fate. Say the word, and I'm the happiest man or the most abject creature--You 're laughing again,--I wonder how you can be so cruel!"

"Really, sir, if I regard your conduct as only absurd, it is a favorable view of it," said she, angrily.

"Do, darling of my soul! light of my eyes! loadstar of my whole destiny!--do take a favorable view of it," said he, catching at her last words.

"I have certainly given you no pretence to make me ridiculous, sir,"

said she, indignantly.

"Ridiculous! ridiculous!" cried he, in utter amazement "Sure it's my hand I 'm offering you. What were you thinking of?"

"I believe I apprehend you aright, sir, and have only to say, that, however honored by your proposal, it is one I must decline."

"Would n't you tell me why, darling? Would n't you say your reasons, my angel? Don't shake your head, my adored creature, but turn this way, and say, 'Gorman, your affection touches me: I see your love for me; but I 'm afraid of you: you 're light and fickle and inconstant; you 're spoiled by flattery among the women, and deference and respect amongst the men. What can I hope from a nature so pampered?'"

"No, in good truth, Mr. O'Shea, not one of these objections have occurred to me; my answer was dictated by much narrower and more selfish considerations. At all events, sir, it is final; and I need only appeal to your sense of good-breeding never to resume a subject I have told you is distasteful to me." And with a heightened color, and a glance which certainly betokened no softness, she turned away and left him.

"Distasteful! distasteful!" muttered he over her last words. "Women!

women! women! there's no knowing ye--the devil a bit! What you 'd like, and what you would n't is as great a secret as the philosopher's stone! Heigho!" sighed he, as he opened his cravat, and drew in a long breath. "I did n't take a canter like that, these five years, and it has sent all the blood to my head. I hope she 'll not mention it. I hope she won't tell it to the widow," muttered he, as he walked to the window for air. "_She's_ the one would take her own fun out of it. Upon my conscience, this is mighty like apoplexy," said he, as, sitting down, he fanned himself with a book.

"Poor Mr. O'Shea!" said a soft voice; and, looking up, he saw Mrs.

Morris, as, leaning over the back of his chair, she bent on him a look half quizzical and half compassionate. "Poor Mr. O'Shea!"

"Why so? How?" asked he, with an affected Jocularity. "Well," said she, with a faint sigh, "you 're not the first man has drawn a blank in the lottery." "I suppose not," muttered he, half sulkily. "Nor will it prevent you trying your luck another time," said she, in the same tone.