"I can't----"

"Please, dear!"

The smile edging her lips glimmered in her eyes now--a reckless little glint of humour, almost defiant.

"Do you insist that I sing 'Asth.o.r.e'?"

"Yes."

He seemed conscious of a latent excitement in her to which something within himself was already responsive.

"It's about a lover," she said, "--one of the old-fashioned, head-long, hot-headed sort--Irish, of course!--you'd not understand--such things----" Her tongue and colour were running random riot; her words outstripped her thoughts and tripped up her tongue, scaring her a little. She drummed on the keys a rollicking trill or two, hesitated, stole a swift, uncertain glance at him.

A delicate intoxication enveloped her, stimulating, frightening her a little, yet hurrying her into speech again:

"I'll sing it for you, Garry asth.o.r.e! And if I were a lad I'd be singing my own gay credo!--if I were the lad--and you but a la.s.s, asth.o.r.e!"

Then, though her gray eyes winced and her flying colour betrayed her trepidation, she looked straight at him, laughingly, and her clear, childish voice continued the little prelude to "Asth.o.r.e":

I

"I long for her, who e'er she be-- The la.s.s that Fate decrees for me; Or dark or white and fair to see, My heart is hers _'be n-Eirinn i_!

I care not, I, Who ever she be, I could not love her more!

_'Be n-Eirin i-- 'Be n-Eirinn i-- 'Be n-Eirinn i Asth.o.r.e!_[1]

II

"I know her tresses unconfined, In wanton ringlets woo the wind-- Or rags or silk her bosom bind It's one to me; my eyes are blind!

I care not, I, Who ever she be, Or poor, or rich galore!

_'Be n-Eirinn i-- 'Be n-Eirinn i-- 'Be n-Eirinn i Asth.o.r.e!_

III

"At noon, some day, I'll climb a hill, And find her there and kiss my fill; And if she won't, I think she will, For every Jack must have his Jill!

I care not, I, Who ever she be, The la.s.s that I adore!

_'Be n-Eirinn i-- 'Be n-Eirinn i-- 'Be n-Eirinn i Asth.o.r.e!_"

[1] The refrain, p.r.o.nounced _Bay-nayring-ee_, is common to a number of Irish love-songs written during the last century. It should be translated: "Whoever she be."

In writing this song, it is evident that Eileen Fane was inspired by Blind William of Tipperary; and that she was beholden to Carroll O'Daly for her "Eileen, my Treasure,"

although not to Robin Adair of County Wicklow.

AUTHOR.

Dulcie's voice and her flushed smile, too, faded, died out. She looked down at the keyboard, where her white hands rested idly; she bent lower--a little lower; laid her arms on the music-rest, her face on her crossed arms. And, slowly, the tears fell without a tremor, without a sound.

He had leaned over her shoulders; his bowed head was close to hers--so close that he became aware of the hot, tearful fragrance of her breath; but there was not a sound from her, not a stir.

"What is it, Sweetness?" he whispered.

"I--don't know.... I didn't m-mean to--cry.... And I don't know why I should.... I'm very h-happy----" She withdrew one arm and stretched it out, blindly, seeking him; and he took her hand and held it close to his lips.

"Why are you so distressed, Dulcie?"

"I'm not. I'm happy.... You know I am.... My heart was very full; that is all.... I don't seem to know how to express myself sometimes....

Perhaps it's because I don't quite dare.... So something gives way....

And this happens--tears. Don't mind them, please.... If I could reach my handkerchief----" She drew the tiny square of sheer stuff from her bosom and rested her closed eyes on it.

"It's silly, isn't it, Garry?... W-when a girl is so heavenly contented.... Is anybody coming?"

"Westmore and Thessa!"

She whisked her tears away and sat up swiftly. But Thessa merely called to them that she and Westmore were off for a walk, and pa.s.sed on through the hall and out through the porch.

"Garry," she murmured, looking away from him.

"Yes, dear?"

"May I go to my room and fix my hair? Because Mr. Skeel will be here.

Do you mind if I leave you?"

He laughed:

"Of course not, you charming child!" Then, as he looked down at her hand, which he still retained, his expression altered; he inclosed the slender fingers, bent slowly and touched the fragrant palm with his lips.

They were both on their feet the next second; she pa.s.sing him with a pale, breathless little smile, and swiftly crossing the hall; he dumb, confused by the sudden tumult within him, standing there with one hand holding to the piano as though for support, and looking after the slim, receding figure till it disappeared beyond the library door.

His mother and sister returned from their morning ride, lingered to chat with him, then went away to dress for luncheon. Murtagh Skeel had not yet arrived.

Westmore and Thessalie returned from their walk in the woods by the second lake, reporting a distant view of Barres senior, fishing madly from a canoe.

Dulcie came down and joined them in the library. Later Mrs. Barres and Lee appeared, and luncheon was announced.

Murtagh Skeel had not come to Foreland Farms, and there was no word from him.

Mrs. Barres spoke of his absence during luncheon, for Garry had told her he was coming to talk to Dulcie about her mother, whom he had known very well in Ireland.

Luncheon ended, and the cool north veranda became the popular rendezvous for the afternoon, and later for tea. People from Northbrook drove, rode, or motored up for a cheering cup, and a word or two of gossip. But Skeel did not come.

By half-past five the north veranda was thronged with a gaily chattering and very numerous throng from neighbouring estates. The lively gossip was of war, of the coming elections, of German activities, of the Gerhardts' promised moonlight spectacle and dance, of Murtagh Skeel and the romantic interest he had aroused among Northbrook folk.

So many people were arriving or leaving and such a delightful and general informality reigned that Dulcie, momentarily disengaged from a vapid but persistent dialogue with a chuckle-headed but persistent youth, ventured to slip into the house, and through it to the garden in the faint hope that perhaps Murtagh Skeel might have avoided the tea-crush and had gone directly there.

But the rose arbour was empty; only the bubble of the little wall fountain and a robin's evening melody broke the scented stillness of the late afternoon.