The frost did not last long. Hunting was speedily resumed, and Ulick was in his element. He had three capital horses, and rode them in the first flight. As the meets were early, and at a distance, and it was dark when he jogged home, he had not much chance of prosecuting his acquaintance with Mary Foley; now and then he came across her; once he met her on Sunday, just outside the Castle gates, coming from mass, with her prayer-book neatly wrapped in a clean handkerchief, and accosted her. “So you’ve been saying your prayers?” he began. “Yes, yer honour”--a curtsey--“but there was a sermon too.” “Was it a good one?” “It was so, sir.” “Tell me what is your idea of a good sermon, Mary?” “Oh, well, one that makes yer blood creep. Father Dunne is a nice quiet man, but he never frightens ye, or puts the fear of death in ye, not like Father Daly. ’Twas him as preached to-day.” “Yes. Tell me all about it?” “Then, sir, I declare ye might have heard the people breathing! They were just paralysed!” “Ah! And were you frightened?” “I cannot say I was all out--just a bit disheartened with myself. I know I’m a black sinner.” “I wish to God my soul was as white as yours, Mary!” “O Lord, sir!” she ejaculated, aghast, “you must not say the like of these things to _me_, and--and----” Colouring up, and taking a firm hold of her resolution, she curtseyed herself off. One afternoon, some weeks later, Ulick Doran overtook the pretty egg-girl on her way from market. Her mother was beginning to feel the distance long, unless she could get a lift, and Mary was alone. The young man dismounted from his weary horse, and walked beside her with the bridle over his arm for three whole happy miles. The afternoon was clear; there was a slim young moon. A red coat is somewhat conspicuous, and the couple were passed by one or two of the neighbours, and descried from a distance by Father Daly himself! All the same, their conversation was absolutely harmless--it was even stupid (but they could subsequently recall each precious syllable); and yet, with every step they took, they fell deeper and deeper into love (but with a frightened consciousness, like--as R. L. Stevenson says--a pair of children venturing together into a dark room). Sixteen and twenty-three--how could they help it? They were both sensible of an indescribable something that drew them irresistibly towards one another. He appealed to her, because he was just Mr. Ulick--and a gentleman. She to him by her strange magnetic personality; she was totally different to any girl he had ever seen--coarsely clad yet dainty, bold yet shy; as for her face, it recalled the exquisite miniature of some piquante beauty at the court of Louis XIV., and Ulick Doran was poignantly aware of her soft low voice, her sweet eyes, her hair, and her upturned, questioning gaze. But Mary was Mary, a peasant’s daughter, and, being a girl of the people, his lips were locked. Nevertheless, he adored her.