They were very happy, and Ulick felt that somehow the world was a very good place to live in, and that the ways of life were not quite so crooked as some people were desirous of making out.
He could not realise that Irene had ever been Warren Courtly's wife. He seemed to have possessed her ever since she came to Hazelwell on the death of her father. She was his Irene, always had been, and always would be for ever more.
And Irene was very happy. She knew her brief life with Warren had been all a mistake. She regretted his death, and the manner of it, but it had not blighted her life. She had known of people who had mourned distractedly the loss of a dear one, and in a few months had changed the garments of widowhood for those of marriage.
In a few years Warren would be merely a memory, nothing more, and it had been his own fault. Having neglected her during life, it was not reasonable to expect he would be reverenced when dead.
She knew she had always loved Ulick, although she had been unaware of it, and now the realisation of her happiness was at hand.
She was to remain at Hazelwell for the night, and when the other guests departed the Squire was told what had happened.
"I knew it was coming," he said, joyfully. "I saw it in your faces. Come and kiss me, Irene; you are not jealous, are you, Ulick?"
"Not at all," he replied, laughing; "but I envy you."
"What!" he exclaimed. "Not had one yet?"
"Dozens," whispered Irene, in his ear, and the Squire laughed heartily.