“Then I am sure you may help yourself,” she returned composedly. “No, I want _you_ to give me one.” “Very well,” rising and breaking off a heavy-headed yellow rose. “I shall never see this old tree again,” he said, as he took it from her. “Nor the house and grounds of Bridgetstown--nor--nor----” “Nor any one in Ballingoole,” she added, without raising her eyes. “Do not say that,” he returned gravely; “I hope to see every one, and above all to see you, Betty. What should we have done without you?” “It was nothing,” she replied, reseating herself wearily. “I have always been at home here, long,” looking at him with a somewhat watery smile, “before you came! When are you going back to India? Soon?” “As soon as I have settled my mother comfortably in Dublin.” “Then to-morrow will be good-bye?” “No, I shall run down again for a day. Betty, I want to ask you something;” he latterly called her by her Christian name quite naturally. “You remember when we came back from Roskeen, where we had always been such good friends--had we not?” Betty nodded, and stared at an enormous bush of lavender, with a somewhat fixed expression. “Afterwards, when I met you at home, you would scarcely speak to me, or even look at me--will you tell me the reason of this? for I know you are a girl who always _has_ a reason for her actions.” “Yes--if you wish it very much--I will,” she answered, drawing a pattern in the gravel with the toe of her shoe, “but I would much rather not tell you.” “And I would so much rather that you did tell me.” “It--it was only the evening after I came home--I made a mistake--I was in the meadow lane, and I saw Lizzie Maccabe and a gentleman; he seemed very fond of her--and she said that it was _you_.” “I am sure I am excessively obliged to her! And so that was the reason! Oh, Betty, how could you believe her--surely you know by this time _who_ it is that I care about.” Betty’s heart beat fearfully fast, but she managed to control her voice, and to say quite naturally: “I thought you were to carry that yellow rose to India--you are picking it to pieces, and will have nothing left but the stalk.” George also exercised all his self-command; hot, passionate words, that came flocking to his lips, were fiercely forced back, by common sense, honour and reason. He had no right to ask this girl, who had seen nothing of the world, to share his present poverty. He must first work for her, and then win her. Nevertheless he could not go without _one_ word, without some frail hope, were it but a look or a flower, and his heart sank within him when he thought of Ghosty Moore. Oh, if he and Betty were but the real master and mistress of that fine old house behind them, how happy he would be! But what was the good of wishing--he was going to India. In ten days’ time, the seas would be rolling between him and Betty.