‘She’s the light of his eyes,’ whispered Rosie to her sweetheart. ‘See how she looks at him.’ ‘Ah!’ said Larry, ‘when will ye be afther lookin’ at _me_ like that?’ ‘When your desarts are ayqual to your impudence! She curtsied, and drew Larry from the room after the others. The Widow Daly followed, dropping an ecstatic curtsey before she disappeared. There was a long pause. Desmond sat looking sadly at the fire. ‘Desmond!’ ‘Yes, Lady Dulcie.’ ‘Dulcie to you, now and always,’ she said, taking his hand. ‘Don’t, don’t!’ said the lad. ‘I can’t bear it. I’d rather you let me drift away from you like a leaf on the running water. I can bear all the rest, but not your pity.’ ‘It’s not pity that brings me here,’ said the warm-hearted girl, with all her heart in her face. ‘It’s something more. I’ve come to ask your forgiveness.’ ‘My forgiveness!’ cried Desmond. ‘For what?’ ‘For all my foolish ways--my thoughtless words. I ought to have known better. But we were both so young. Well, I was a child this morning, but seeing your trouble, I feel to-night like an old, old woman.’ ‘Ah! You’re still what you always were, Dulcie, sweet and beautiful. ’Twas on a sunny summer’s day God made ye, and ’Twas the brightest bit of work He ever did!’ ‘You’re not going away, Desmond?’ she besought him. ‘I must,’ he answered. ‘I came to ask you for your father’s sake, for mine, to stay a little while. You will, Desmond? For my sake!’ ‘They’re words to conjure with, Dulcie,’ said Desmond. ‘But sure I can’t. D’ye know what they’ll all be calling me? D’ye know what name they’ll soon be giving me? How can I stay and look you in the face?’ ‘Oh, Desmond,’ she pleaded, ‘your father----’ ‘Don’t spake of him!’ cried Desmond. ‘He loves you, Desmond. He’d give his right hand to put things right. If you will remain he will acknowledge you as his son--make you his heir.’ Desmond shook his head. ‘He can’t give me the one thing I want,’ said Desmond proudly and sadly. ‘He can’t take the blot off my name, the stain off my mother’s. He can’t turn back the years and bring her from the grave.’ ‘He can make amends,’ said Dulcie. ‘He will.’ ‘It’s too late for that, too,’ answered Desmond. ‘Ah, spare me, Dulcie! Don’t speak of it! Don’t remind me of my disgrace!’ ‘Your disgrace?’ repeated Dulcie. ‘Where is the disgrace to you? Where there is no sin there can be no shame; and you are innocent. Desmond, there are others who care for you. There’s one,’ she added softly, ‘who would give all the world to see you happy. Don’t make her miserable by going away.’ ‘You mean that?’ cried the boy. ‘No? Oh, Dulcie, don’t be too good to me! Don’t let me think you care for me!’ ‘Why not, when I do care for you?’ returned the girl. ‘And I do, I do!’ She took his hand and rose from her seat. ‘I think you’re very ungrateful.’ ‘Ungrateful! To _you!_’