“Yes. There is nothing half so sweet in life as love’s young dream, and it has been very sweet. Mary, although I’ve never said one word to you that I might not have addressed to your mother, I’m sure you have _guessed_. Now I came here to tell you the truth; I felt that before I went away, I must speak. I love you, Mary, and I know my own mind. I shall never forget you to my dying day. Yet we can never be anything to one another.” Mary gazed at his face--white in the moonlight--and made a sudden shivering gesture, pierced with a sense of something tragic and irreparable. She moaned, “Oh, I wish I was dead, that I do.” “Oh, no, don’t say that. You will have many happy years before you. Why, you are only sixteen. You will soon forget me, and it will be better for you.” “If you can remember, so can I,” she answered proudly. “It is hard lines, Mary. I wish I was just a labouring boy for your sake; but you know that unequal matches bring no luck. There is a barrier between us, like this pane of glass.” “Yes, that’s true,” she murmured. “Open the window, Mary,” he urged. “Just an inch.” “Sure I can’t; it’s nailed fast! Are ye up at the Castle?” “Up at the Castle they think I am in Queenstown. My mother was very rude to you, I’m afraid; she has a hot temper, poor woman, and she believes the Dorans are next door to royalty. She would like me to marry an earl’s daughter. I’ll never marry now, and I must go. God bless you. I wish I could shake you by the hand, but I won’t ask to come in----” He paused, and stared hard at her. “Mary, look here. Will you kiss me through the window? It won’t be a _real_ kiss, you know, but it will be something for me to carry away, and a sign you cared for me--here, just on this little star.” As she nodded quickly, he bent his head, removed his cap, and pressed his lips on the pane. Mary too leant forward, and deliberately laid hers on the self-same spot. Then he stepped back and looked at her with misty eyes that said farewell. Suddenly he, with a vehement and pathetic gesture, waved his hand, and vanished. Mary Foley spent the remainder of that unhappy night rocking to and fro and sobbing in a chair. Her heart was broken, she told herself--broken, broken, broken! What was the good of living at all, when she could never again lay an eye on Mr. Ulick, and Mr. Ulick loved her! Struggling through the eclipse of grief, that truth shone like a fixed star. Meanwhile a light, active figure might be seen, running or walking by turns along a short cut which led to a junction over the hills nine miles away. Ulick Doran had to catch a mail train at one o’clock. If he missed it, he would forfeit his passage in the trooper lying at Queenstown, and be reported absent without leave.