She paced slowly up and down the walk. As twelve o’clock struck from Hampton church, the boat’s keel ground against the iron steps. Laurence tied her to the landing-stage, and came bounding on to the green walk, at the extreme end of which Mrs. Jerningham stood watching him. He did not glance in her direction, but walked across the lawn to the drawing-room, where he was accustomed to find the mistress of the house, and went in through a fernery. Emily followed swiftly. She was so eager to perceive the effect of those tidings which must needs be so important to Laurence, if he were indeed the traitor she half-believed him to be. At the glass-door between the fernery and the drawing-room she stopped. She was too late. The news had been told already. For one moment she deliberated, and in the next, as far as feminine honour goes, was lost. Laurence was speaking. She did not want to interrupt him. She wanted to hear what he said; so she drew back a little, behind the shelter of a gigantic Australian fern, and watched him, and heard him, from that convenient covert. “To Ireland?” he said, gravely; “and do you like going to Ireland, Miss Alford?” This was very proper; this was as it should be, thought Mrs. Jerningham,--a cold, measured, guardian-like tone, expressive of a gentleman-like and Christianlike concern in the young lady’s welfare; no more. Emily breathed more freely. “Ye--yes,” faltered Lucy; “I--I--I am very grateful to Mrs. Jerningham for her kindness in procuring me such a happy home; only--only I----” “Only what, Lucy?” Good heavens! what a sudden change of tone! No longer measured and gentleman-like, but full of a tender eagerness--a fond concern, that went through Mrs. Jerningham’s heart like a dagger. “Only I--oh, it is very wicked of me to be discontented--only--Ireland is so very, very far away from all the people I ever knew; and every friend--and--from YOU!” And here she broke down, as she had broken down upon a previous occasion, and burst into tears. In the next moment she was clasped in Laurence Desmond’s arms. The Australian fern was shaken as by a sudden tempest--ah, what a tempest of passion, and grief, and jealousy, and despair raged in the heart of her whose trembling caused those leaves to shake! “Lucy!” cried Laurence, passionately, “you must not--you must not! I cannot see you cry. It is not the first time. Once before you tortured me like this; and I held my tongue. I _could_ keep silence then; but I can’t to-day. I did not love you then as I do now--my pet, my dear love. Send you to Ireland! Oh, how cruel!--my tender one alone among strangers! My dearest, for months I have held myself aloof from you; I have forbidden my eyes to look at you; and now, after all my struggles, after all my victories, I break down at last. I love you--I love you!”