The shadow upon the Parsonage had become actual distress--deep, poignant, all-absorbing distress. The two little ladies still looked mutely at each other, while this thing that had come upon them began to take actual shape. First there had been the vague anxiety for Eileen and Jack--then the loss of their old friend the General--then the bitter news that The Ghan House must be given up; and it seemed for the time that their cup of trouble was full. And yet the worst was still to come.

But it is necessary first to go back and review the events of the weary week that has dragged past since the flowers were laid upon the new-made grave in the little churchyard.

There had been many consultations, and many tears, and much pain, ere it was finally decided the good doctor's offer must indeed be accepted, and early in the new year the mother and her daughters must start for London in order that Paddy might begin her studies at once.

Meanwhile, Jack had been absent a great deal in Newry, and had returned always with a deeply thoughtful expression, and moved about in the preoccupied manner of one having some project weighing heavily upon his mind.

One evening he had come in quickly and gone straight to his room without saying a word to anyone, and he had not come down again, though Miss Jane had gone upstairs and begged him to come and have some supper, or let her carry it to his room for him.

"I couldn't eat anything to-night, auntie," he had answered, "but I am quite well. Please don't worry about me," and poor Miss Jane had gone back to the dining-room with tears in her eyes, wondering what had happened to make their boy shut himself away even from them.

"Perhaps he has seen Eileen," little Miss Mary suggested. "I know he went across to The Ghan House, and as Mrs Adair is laid up, and Paddy had to go to Newry, there would be only Eileen about."

And little Mary was right.

Jack had seen Eileen. He had had his first uninterrupted talk with her since her father died. He had found her sitting alone over the library fire, leaning back with a tired, wasted look on her face, and a closed book on her knee.

"May I stay!" he asked her, and she had mutely acquiesced, and he had closed the door, with a strange throbbing in his heart.

"Won't you sit down!" she said, and he had shaken his head without speaking, and remained standing with his back to the fire, leaning against the mantelpiece, where he could watch her face the better. He could see that she was looking ill, and the sight smote him. He realised that, perhaps, she was suffering even more than the others.

Indeed, it was so, if possible, for in her longing for her father, her heart would turn and turn piteously to Lawrence, and only feel the greater desolation. Yet no word or sign escaped her. Only that frail, wasted expression grew on her face, and the unchanging sadness deepened in her eyes.

"It seems impossible that only a few weeks ago we were all so happy," he said at last. "It's very hard when Life lets you go on being careless and light-hearted for years and years; and then, without any warning, suddenly grips you by the throat and makes you feel half strangled by the weight of it all."

She did not speak, and looking straight before him he ran on:

"It seems as if the death of the dear old General would have been enough in itself, but on the top of that comes this awful separation. Do you know, Eileen, sometimes I think it can't be true--that it is too awful to be true--that The Ghan House should stand here and none of you in it, and that the sounds craning over to the Parsonage should be from other voices than yours. Sometimes I feel I can't bear it; and yet I know it will have to be borne."

Still she did not speak. She was so tired--so tired--and what was there to say?

"And that isn't all, Eileen," in a voice that would tremble in spite of himself. "It seems somehow as if it were my fault that you have to go to London, and Paddy must work."

"Your fault!" she asked wonderingly.

"Yes, Eileen, in a way. You see if I had taken the opportunities that I might have had for the asking when I was eighteen, I should probably have been doing very well indeed now, and been in a position to do something for you all."

"You are very good, Jack, but it isn't likely that we should have let you, though we should have loved you for thinking of it."

"I don't know," he said. "Everything might have been different." He paused, then added: "You know. I think I have always loved you, Eileen, ever since you were a solemn-faced little girl; though it is only lately I have realised just all it meant. I know I have generally ran about with Paddy, and been far more with her, but she was like a boy friend, while you were always my ideal of all that is best and sweetest in a woman. It is only lately I have actually understood that all my life I should love you better than the whole world."

"Oh, Jack!" she breathed, in a distressed voice, "please don't go on."

He smiled down at her, and there was something strangely beautiful in his smile.

"Yes, let me go on," he said. "It does me good to speak of it. I am not one of those men who feel bitter about loving when it is not returned, and too vain to acknowledge that it is so. To me it is such a simple, natural thing to love you; and such an unlikely possibility that you should return my love. Perhaps, if I had been more of a man the last nine years, and had started to make my way in the world, and then come to you with something to offer, it might have been different; but now! ah! that is just the hard part of it all."

"No, no, you mustn't feel like that," she cried. "What should we have done without you?--what would the aunties have done?--and I don't think it would have made any difference, Jack."

He looked at her searchingly.

"If there is someone else, Eileen, perhaps not, and yet--and yet--how often have you lectured me about being idle and good-for-nothing! Would to Heaven I had awakened, and listened to you sooner."

She buried her face in her hands.

"I suppose I ought not to ask if there is someone else," he said, watching her. "It would sound like an impertinence, wouldn't it?"

"Oh, Jack, don't talk like this," she begged. "Please, please forget about me. It hurts me so much to feel that I am hurting you."

"No, I can't forget," he answered very firmly. "I don't want to; but I have no right to bother you with my love, when I have nothing in the world to offer. But I am going away, Eileen. I am going right away out of the country altogether, and some day, if I have succeeded, I shall come back; and if you are free I shall tell you again what I have told you to-day."

"You are going away!" she repeated incredulously, sitting up and gazing at him with questioning eyes. "Going away!--out of the country!"

"Yes. I ought to have gone before."

"But the aunties, Jack!--whatever will the aunties do?"

"I am afraid they will feel it very much, but I know they will understand, and I must go."

"But where to? Have you actually arranged it?"

"Yes. There is a man is Newry named Wilkinson--I don't know if you know him. He is home from the Argentine for a few months' holiday. He has a large cattle ranch out there, and he wants me to go back with him. I have decided to go."

"Oh, Jack!" was all she could say. "Need it have been so far?"

"Beggars can't be choosers," with a wintry smile. "I believe it is a good thing. Wilkinson is a nice fellow, and he has done very well in the ten years he has been out there. We were chums at school, you know, and he offers me a better job than anyone else would."

"Poor aunties! It will half kill them."

There was a long silence, then Jack spoke again:

"I hoped--perhaps--that is," he began hesitatingly--"Eileen, couldn't you give me one word of hope to live on all the years I must be away?"

He drew nearer and sat on the arm of her chair, as he had so often done through the time they had grown up together. "You'll miss me a little, perhaps, and wish I could come back sooner--tell me, Eileen, that you'll miss me."

"We shall miss you terribly, Jack," she answered, struggling to keep back the tears. "England will not be the same without you. Mother and Paddy and I will miss you terribly."

"Is that all?"

He leant forward and clasped one hand over both hers, looking hard into her face.

"Is that all, Eileen!" and his voice was a prayer.

"I'm afraid so, Jack. Oh! I wouldn't have hurt you like this for the world. I never dreamt! I never thought! Are you sure you mean it, Jack?--Isn't it just a dream or something?"

"No, it is not a dream--I mean every word of it--but there is nothing for you to blame yourself about, and you must never do so. I think, perhaps, there is someone else--I was half afraid--only I wanted so to think it was a mistake."

There was another long pause, and tears rolled slowly down Eileen's white cheeks.

"I wish I could think that you were happy," he said painfully. "It makes things worse going away and feeling that you are breaking your heart. It isn't as if he were worth it. I don't even think he could make you happy if he tried; he's too set in his own ways and opinions."