terry arrived a little before midnight, having made the difficult cross-country journey from the curragh, looking so troubled and unhappy that his mother's heart was soft over him as when he was the little boy she remembered.

he bent his six foot of height to kiss her, and his voice was husky as he asked how his father was.

"he is asleep, thank god," she answered. "he came to himself for a little time while i was out this afternoon. reilly, who is invaluable, a real staff, tells me it is healthy sleep now, not unconsciousness."

"imagine reilly!" said terry, with a sigh of immense relief. "you poor darling! to think of your having to bear it alone! the colonel was so decent about leave. he told me not to come back till you could do without me. a son's not as good as a daughter. still, i'm better than nothing, aren't i, darling?"

"you are better than any one," his mother said, caressing his smooth young cheeks.

"you should have wired for eileen. what's that selfish minx doing?

making up with the lakh of rupees, i suppose?"

"do you know i never remembered eileen," she said, and laughed for the first time since the accident. her heart had lifted suddenly with an irrational, joyful hope.

she wanted to get terry to bed and a night's sleep before he knew anything about stella's illness. in the morning the girl might be better. terry looked very weary. he explained to her with a half-shy laugh what terrible imaginings had been his companions on the railway journey.

"by jove, darling," he said, "i never want an experience like it again. and how the train dragged! i felt like trying to push it along with something inside me all the time till i was as tired as though i had been really pushing it. at one place the train stopped in the middle of a bog—some one had pulled the communication cord—and the guard and the fireman ran along the carriages, using frightful language, only to pull out seven drunken men going home from a fair, in charge of one small boy who was sober. he was explaining that he couldn't wake them up at the last station, and that as soon as they came awake they pulled the cord. 'go on out o' that now, ye ould divil!' said the guard giving a kick to the last of them. i assure you i didn't feel inclined to laugh, even then, darling, though it was so ridiculous!"

she pressed him to eat, but he was too weary to eat much; and she vetoed his seeing his father before morning, being afraid that the strange pallor on the face of the sick man would frighten the boy.

she got him off at last, unwillingly, but out of consideration for her weariness. she was going to bed, she said; reilly was taking the night watch. she had not slept all the preceding night. he had not asked about stella, although several times she had thought he was about to ask. she hoped he would not ask. how was she to answer him if he did?

she said good-night to him in his warm fire-lit room, feeling the sweetness and comfort of having him there again despite all the trouble: and, half-way to the door, she was stopped by the question she had dreaded.

"mother, have you seen stella?"

"you shall see her to-morrow," she answered, and hurried away, feeling dreadfully guilty because she imagined the light of joy in his young face.

despite all her troubles she slept soundly, the sleep of dead-tiredness: and when she awoke it was half-past seven. she could hear the maid in the drawing-room below her lighting the fire. it was still grey, but there were indications of a beautiful sunrise in the long golden-yellow light that was breaking in the sky: and a robin was singing.

she did not feel inclined to lie on. she was refreshed and strengthened for the many difficulties of the day before her. she got up, dressed and went down to the sick-room. reilly was just coming out with a scuttle-full of ashes: he had been "doing" the grate and lighting the fire. he had expressed a wish that there might be as few intruders in the sick-room as possible.

"the thing is to keep him quiet, m'lady," he had said. "they are well-meaning girls"—referring to the maids—"but as like as not they'd drop the fire-irons just when he was in a beautiful sleep."

reilly looked quite cheerful; and lady o'gara began to think that the flat side-whiskered face had something very pleasant about it after all. he did not wait for her to make inquiries.

"he's doing nicely, m'lady," he said. "he's been awake and asked for your ladyship."

"oh!" she said with a catch of the breath, "you should have called me."

"he'd have been asleep before your ladyship could have come. sleep's the best of all medicine."

she had her breakfast and relieved reilly. somewhere about ten o'clock

terry opened the door and peeped in.

"come!" she beckoned to him.

he came and stood beside her looking down at the bandaged head and pale unconscious face. the deadly pallor of yesterday had passed. a slight colour had come to the cheeks, driving away the blue shadows.

tears filled the boy's eyes as he looked, and his mother loved him for the sensibility.

she went out with him into the corridor to speak. there was so much she had to tell him that could not be told in a moment or two.

"i shall be off duty by three o'clock," she said. "can you wait till then?"

"i suppose i couldn't … they wouldn't want me at inch? i have written to stella and she has not answered."

"she has not been very well. i will tell you about it. only be patient, dear boy. i must not stay away from your father too long."

"very well," he said resignedly. "i'll take out shot and we'll pot at rabbits—a long way from the house, darling. it's good to be here, anyhow."

"it's good to have you," she said gratefully.

he had not taken up what she said about stella's not being well, and she was glad of that. stella had not been at her best when he left. she might have alarmed him and set him to asking questions which she would have found it difficult to parry.

twice during the morning hours, while she sat in the clean well-ordered room, with its bright fire and its sudden transformation to a sick-room, she was called to the door. once it was to interview patsy kenny. he had brought word that susan had spoken to him from the window of waterfall cottage and had said that miss stella was no worse. patsy was to watch by sir shawn for the afternoon and evening: so much had been conceded to him.

she was expecting the doctor when another summons came—this time it was sir felix conyers, who came tip-toeing along the corridor since she could not go downstairs to him.

"i'm terribly sorry for this dreadful accident, lady o'gara," he said. she noticed with a wondering gratitude that sir felix was quite pale. "i've only just heard it. the whole countryside will be shocked. such a popular man as sir shawn, such a good landlord and fine specimen of a country gentleman. upon my word, i'm sorry."

she saw that he was, and she put out her fair be-ringed hand and took his, pressing it softly.

"thank you, sir felix," she said. "i know you feel for us and i am very grateful. thank god, it is not as bad as it might have been. my husband is sleeping quietly. the doctor is quite pleased."

"thank god for that," said sir felix, echoing her. "he'll be back amongst us again in no time. i came to tell you as soon as i could that the ruffian fury brought to me the other night has disappeared. the effects of the drink worn off, i said to fury, and gave him a sharp touch-up about too much zeal. the fellow walks like a dancing-master, and talks picking his words to conceal want of education. i pity the men under him, i do indeed. i'm really sorry, lady o'gara, that i troubled you with that cock and bull story the other night. i don't anticipate that we'll hear any more about it."

"i'm glad my husband was not troubled with it," she said, and left her hand in the kind gentleman's: he was wringing it hard, so that the rings hurt her, but she would not have betrayed it for worlds.

a few more expressions of sympathy and of a desire to help and sir

felix was gone. she was left to her watch once more.

the house seemed extraordinarily quiet. the clock in the corridor ticked away, marking the flight of time. now and again a coal fell from the fire on to the hearth, or some one came to know if anything was wanted. mary o'gara, usually so full of energy, was content to sit watching her husband's face on the pillow. sir felix's visit had brought her a certain relief. she could put that worry away from her—for the time. if the man had disappeared he had probably good reasons for disappearing. perhaps he would not come back. he might be frightened of the thing he had done. anyhow, she was grateful for so much relief; and if shawn was going to live she felt that she could endure all other troubles.

after a time she remembered something—something that must be done.

mrs. comerford must be told about stella. perhaps the anger had died

down in her by this time, leaving her chilled and miserable, as mary

o'gara remembered her in the old days after some violent scene with

terence.

she went to the writing-table in the room and wrote a note. she had just placed it in its envelope when the doctor came and she gave it to the servant who showed him up; bidding her give it to patsy kenny to be sent to inch by a special messenger.

the doctor was well satisfied with sir shawn's condition. while he examined him the patient opened his eyes. how dark they looked in the white face! they rested on the doctor with recognition, then passed on to his wife, and he smiled.

"have i … been very troublesome?" he asked. "i remember … now … that brute, spitfire … always was a brute…."

the eyes grew vague again and closed, but the lips kept their faint smile.

"he'll sleep a lot," said the doctor. "much the best thing for him too. he had run himself down even before the accident. he'll be able to talk more presently."

he had taken her out to the corridor before he told the latest, most sensational news.

"i found a new nurse by the little girl's bedside this morning," he said. "apparently she is the lady who occupied the cottage—mrs. wade. the patient seems wonderfully improved. hardly any fever; she kept watching her new nurse as though she dreaded letting her out of her sight."

"ah—that is good!"

there was another lightening of the heaviness of lady o'gara's heart. some mothers in her place might have had an unacknowledged feeling that stella's death would not be altogether the worst solution of a difficult situation. it would have been easy to think with a kindly pity of how much better it would be for the poor child without a name to drift quietly out on the great sea. not so lady o'gara. her whole being had been in suffering for the suffering of this young thing who had crept into her heart. now she was lifted up with the thought of stella coming back to life and health. for the rest it was in the future. with god be the future!

terry was late for lunch. patsy kenny had begged and prayed to be allowed to help in "lookin' after the master," so he took the afternoon watch, setting lady o'gara free to be with her son. it was not like terry to be late for lunch. he was a very good trencherman and had always been the first to laugh at his own appetite. but to-day he did not come. his mother waited, turning over the newspapers which came late to castle talbot. he must have gone farther afield than he had intended. she was not nervous. what was there to be nervous about? terry had forgotten in the joy of rabbiting that the luncheon hour was gone by: that was all.

at last he came, almost simultaneously with a wild idea in his mother's head that he might have wandered towards waterfall cottage and somehow discovered that stella was there.

she got up quite cheerfully when she saw him.

"you are late, dear boy," she said. her heart had gone up because so many good things had happened this morning. shawn was better and had recognized her. the wretch who would have hurt him in the secret places of his heart had gone on farther. stella was doing well. it was always the way with her to be irrationally hopeful. many and many a time she had had to ask herself why, on some particular day, she was feeling particularly happy, and had had to trace back the cause to something so small that even she had forgotten it. the founts of happiness in her were very quick to flow.

"there is a cold game pie here," she said, "and there is some curry which i have sent down to keep warm. also there is pressed beef and a cold pheasant on the sideboard. i suggest that you begin with the curry and go on to the other things."

he did not answer her, but sat down with a weary air. she looked at him in quick alarm. he was not looking well.

"what is the matter, terry?" she asked anxiously.

"oh, nothing, darling, to make you look so frightened. only i have had a rather gruesome experience. i found a dead man, and such an ugly one!"

"a dead man!"

"yes—just by old hercules o'hart's tomb. the place will have twice as bad a name now."

"what sort of a man?"

"oh, a tramp, apparently. he appeared to have fallen from the mount. he might have been running in the dark and shot out violently over the edge. from the look of him i should say he had broken his neck. you know how thick the moss is there under the trees. you would not think the fall could have hurt him, but he is stone-dead. i didn't want him brought here so i ran off and got some men who are building a congested districts board house on the tubber road to lift him. the body is in the stable belonging to the pub. there will have to be an inquest, i suppose, and i shall have to give evidence. a beastly bore." he began to cut himself a slab out of the game pie absent-mindedly.

"terry," she said, "i think i know the man. he has been about here lately. patsy would know. if he is the man i think, he is the husband of susan horridge, the little woman at the south lodge."

"oh—that patsy's so sweet on! he was a bad lot, wasn't he? a brute to that poor little woman and the delicate child. he didn't look a nice person."

he gave a fastidious little shudder.

"we're too squeamish," he said. "it comes of the long peace. i've sent word to costello. i suppose i'll have to appear at the inquest. they say a wise man never found a dead man. no one would accuse me of being wise."

a queer thought came to her. if shawn had not been lying as he was, helpless, might not he have been suspected of a hand in the death of the man who had made such charges against him?