"Larry," she said, pausing with her foot on the step, "may I drive? I'd love to drive."
Asshlin gave a ready assent, and, taking his own seat, handed her the reins, while Burke mounted to the back of the trap.
It was wonderful to Clodagh, that first gathering up of reins rendered hard by long service and Irish rain—that first forward start into the strong, sea-scented air. A sudden joy filled her. She was young; the world was a goodly place, when one studied it in this untainted atmosphere; above all, she was possessor of the great prize—love. Far away, in the tumult and press of the greatest city in the world, the man she set above all others thought of her—waited for her—trusted her.
Out of her own bright confidence, she made the sunny morning brighter, as she drove along the well-remembered roads, halting every mile or so to gaze at some thrice-familiar object that stood now as it had stood in the days of her babyhood.
At last Carrigmore was reached. She saw the clustering pink-and-white cottages of the village; the sleeping ruins guarded by the Round Tower; the long, yellow strand and the glassy bay, on whose farther headland stood the house of Orristown—-a square white patch, to be seen for many miles. She looked at it all long and closely.
"Oh, Larry," she said, below her breath, "how wonderfully the same it is! Nance told me, but I couldn't imagine it. Why, there's scarcely a weed changed!"
Asshlin laughed a little.
"We didn't think you'd care much about it, after Italy and places," he said, with a slight touch of shy awkwardness that seemed more than ever to link the present with the past.
"Not care about it? Larry!" Her voice quivered; then she laughed quickly and touched the horse with the whip.
"Shall we go straight to Orristown? or shall I run in and see Aunt Fan?"