"And yet you ought to be happy, if ever a woman ought! You are young and beautiful—I think sometimes you hardly know how beautiful you are; and perhaps that is your greatest charm."
"Oh, yes, I do!" she answers, showing her white teeth and her dimples in a sudden smile. "But, after all, as you said once, if you remember, I am only an Irish girl; and the wonder is that such a fine gentleman as this George Cantrill should look at me! Don't you think so?"
"No, I do not," he returns frigidly. "I think you are a fit wife for any man!"
"And since when have you thought that, Brian? Tell me the truth," the girl says, stopping on the narrow path, and looking up at him with lovely imperious eyes.
The man's heart yearns for her, as she stands there in her grace and beauty, and the passionate love he has tried so hard to subdue rises and masters him.
"What does that matter? I know it now!" he says hoarsely. "Should I be here to-day if I did not?"
"And what brought you here to-day, Brian?" She is looking at him, and he feels his cheeks burn under her glance.
"It's too late to talk of that now," he says, trying not to look at her.
"Let me be judge of that; tell me"—coaxingly—"why you came all this way, and you so ill—not fit to travel?"
"I came to ask you to be my wife, Honor. I fought against it as long as I could; but my love was stronger than my pride, and I came, even at the risk of being mocked at for my folly. But I had not been five minutes in the house before I heard you were going to marry this fellow from Dublin, and even then I was fool enough to come out to look at you. I could not go away without one glance at your face."