“Only fifteen miles from Limerick.” If the noble old stone house had been fifteen miles from Memphis, or fifteen miles from Timbuctoo, the name of the locality could scarcely have conjured up more dreary ideas in the mind of Lucy Alford. She involuntarily made a rough calculation of the mileage between Limerick and Mr. Desmond’s chambers. _Him_ she could never hope to see again, if she went to those unknown wilds of Ireland. And yet what did it matter? A world seemed to divide them, as it was. Sitting in the same boat with him, the abyss that yawned between them was profound and immeasurable as eternity. At Limerick or at Hampton it must be all the same. He was nothing to her at Hampton; at Limerick he could be no less than nothing. Something in her face, as she mused thus, told Mrs. Jerningham that the delight afforded by these tidings was not altogether unalloyed. “I dare say the notion of such a journey alarms you,” said Emily, kindly; “but I will see that all is arranged for your comfort. And I am sure you will be happy at Shannondale Park. I could not have wished you better fortune than such a home.” No: what could fortune give her brighter than this? A pleasant home and a kind mistress. She felt like some poor little slave sold to a new master, to be sent to a strange country. She tried with a great effort to express some sense of pleasure and thankfulness, but she could not. The words choked her. Happy, in barbarous wastes of unknown Hibernia, while _he_ lived his own life in London, serenely forgetful of her wretched existence! “Oh, how ungrateful I am!” she said to herself, while Mrs. Jerningham watched her sharply, and guessed what thoughts were working in that sorely troubled brain. “Perhaps a situation nearer London would have suited you better, Miss Alford,” Emily remarked, with biting acrimony; “where your _old friends_ could have called upon you from time to time.” Lucy flushed burning red, and anon burst into tears. “I have no friend in the world but you,” she said, piteously. “I know it is wicked of me not to be pleased with such good fortune, and I--am--truly--ger--ger--grateful to you, dear Mrs. Jerningham; but Ireland seems so very far away.” The piteous look subdued Emily’s sternness. She took the girl’s hand in her own tenderly. “Yes, it _seems_ far away,” she said, cheerfully; “but I know you will be happy there. You cannot imagine anything more beautiful than the river Shannon.” Lucy thought of Father Thames and his dipping willows, and _his_ grave face, sadly regardful of her in the pauses of his talk. She thought of these things, and shook her head. Ah, no, it was impossible; for _her_, Shannon could never be what Thames had been. Mrs. Jerningham comforted her in a grand, patronizing manner, and promised her unbounded happiness--on the banks of the Shannon.