“Ah, glorious France!” she exclaimed, “she had only to stamp her foot and out her children came swarming round her, begging her to let them go fight, conquer or die for her.”
“But poor Ireland,” and a wistful look came into her eyes, “I come back to you only to find a race of slaves!”
And her voice, exultant a second before, sank as if burdened with great sorrow.
Then, after a slight pause, she resumed.
“But I fear I should not have spoken this way, Mr. Grierson, and the evening is waning, and I had better return home.”
“Not have spoken this way!” Grierson exclaimed, “as if I have any desire to find fault with your words or your thoughts; as if every word of yours does not find a home in my heart!”
And he caught her little hand and lifted it to his lips.
She permitted the caress, then gently withdrawing her hand she repeated: “I had better return home.”
“But why should you not speak to me and tell me everything?” he cried passionately.