CHAPTER IX.
DOWN THE IRISH COAST.
When Roderic Owen saw the look of deep concern on his cousin's face give way to a radiant expression as he entered the door of the hotel, his heart reproached him.
Here he had been actually reveling in the realms of bliss for the last three hours or more, while Cleo, judging from her appearance, had been "plunged in a gulf of dark despair," or at least considerably worried over the fact of his singular disappearance.
It was really too bad.
Her faithful heart had yearned after him, just as a loving sister's might for the absent one—the two girls were so entirely unlike in looks and temperament that it never occurred to him to compare Cleo's affection with that of Georgia—and yet it was of the kind that lasts through life.
Feeling that somehow he had caused Cleo considerable anxiety, and being conscience stricken on account of his own present happiness, Roderic advanced hastily to ascend the broad stairs and meet her on the landing above.
"You were worried about me, dear cousin?"
"Naturally so—all day you have been away—and to-morrow we sail—unless something important has happened, to alter your plans," she replied, her face flushing at the eager manner in which he caught her hand.