“Then it’s to Mary I’m talking. Mary, wid all your grandeur and money, you won’t buy love, mind you _that_, and you will never find any one, if you were to go over the wide world, that will love you the same as I do.” “Perhaps not, Patsie.” “Ah!”--and his tone was triumphant. “But what is the use of it, Pat, when I cannot--never could or would or should--love _you_.” “Ye never tried!” “One does not _try_ to love, I believe. I like you, and as a friend I will not forget you or go agen you. You are mixed up with all my life here, and I am friendly with yer mother and Lizzie; but if I’d lived here to the end of my days, I’d never have loved you, Patsie.” “You’ll go off and marry some one else--some one of the pattern of the little red-faced blackguard.” “No, I think not; I’m not such a fool!” “Faix, I don’t know about that,” he sneered. “A long while back there was Mr. Ulick--ye were near making a fool of yourself with him!” “I was not!” she retorted with passion. “How dare you bring in his name--how dare you?” she repeated, and her face was white. “Oh, I dare most things when me blood is up. And now, I’d like ye to promise me one thing.” “What is it?” she asked impatiently. “That ye will never marry any one at all,” he answered, raising his voice, and his eyes blazed into hers, “but be true to Ireland--and to _me_.” “True to you--what balderdash! Sure, don’t ye know well I never cared a thraneen about ye?” She glanced up at him suddenly, and noticed that his dark, expressive face was working with passion. What ailed him? He looked murderous. Was he going to kill her? It was a lonely enough spot. A man had been beaten to death in that very road. “See now, I’ll promise you one thing, Pat,” she continued, dissembling her fears, “for old times’ sake. If ever you are in any trouble, or want a good friend, I’ll help you. And as to marrying me, ye know there’s a dozen prettier girls in these parts just _aching_ to have you. I can’t think why you are so set on _me_. Come, Pat, carry the cat for me, and we will be going home.” Pat turned about; his expression startled her--the hard look in his eyes, the tightness of his lips. Her heart beat convulsively, but she kept a brave front and faced him as she would some dangerous animal, from whom she could not escape, and was therefore bound to overawe. Pat was crazy drunk; the raw whisky had taken effect; there was a mad look in his eyes. Did he mean to murder her? The sudden sound of voices and approaching footsteps filled her with a sense of profound relief. It proved a party of neighbours going towards Glenveigh; and before Pat could interfere, Mary had snatched up Whitey, opened the gate, and darted after them.