‘I hope,’ said Desmond, after a short pause, ‘that you won’t think what I’m going to tell ye is a burden. Faith, ’tis hard to know where to begin! Supposing--mind, I only say supposing--supposing my mother were not dead at all, supposing she were alive, and came back here, would you make the same amends to her as you say you’ll make to me?’ ‘You--you torture me!’ cried Kilpatrick. ‘Why rake up these painful recollections? Why ask questions of this sort, when they can do no good? Every day of my life, for eighteen years past, I have repented the wrong I did. God knows, if it were possible, I would repair it.’ ‘Ye mean that?’ cried Desmond. ‘God knows I do!’ said Kilpatrick, ‘but of what avail is it to speak of such things now?’ ‘Of more avail than you may think, father. Strange things have happened this last day or two.’ Kilpatrick searched his son’s face with distending eyes. ‘Desmond! For God’s sake, tell me what you mean!’ ‘I mean,’ said Desmond, taking his father’s hand, ‘that God has been very good to us both, father. If I tell it to you too suddenly, forgive me--I don’t know how to break it properly. My mother is alive!’ Kilpatrick staggered as if the words had shot him. ‘Alive!’ he gasped. ‘Moya Macartney alive!’ ‘Yes, sure,’ said Desmond, ‘and in a little while she’ll be here, in Ireland.’ Kilpatrick sank into a seat, and sat trembling like a man ague-struck. ‘In fact,’ said Desmond, ‘she is in Ireland already, and on her way here.’ The old man sprang to his feet. ‘She is here--she is in the house!’ Desmond walked to the ante-room door, and made a sign. Moya advanced into the library, and let slip the shawl from her face. ‘God of Heaven!’ cried Kilpatrick, falling to his knees. ‘Moya!’ She stood still, looking down on him, the broad light falling on her wrinkled face and whitening hair. Kilpatrick bent his head beneath her gaze, an awful sob broke from his throat. Desmond closed the door, leaving them together: the meeting was too sacred to be witnessed even by him. ***** A long time had gone by, and the shadow of the Castle had blotted out the shaft of sunshine which had spread its glory of golden green on the lawn when the carriage had reached the Castle. Desmond still sat alone as a light step crossed the floor, and a soft arm was slipped round his neck. He looked up and saw Dulcie. ‘You needn’t say anything, Desmond,’ she said. ‘Peebles has told me. I am so happy, dear, for your sake.’ He drew her to his side. ‘You loved me, Dulcie, when I was the poor Squireen: will you love me the less now that I’m to be the next Lord Kilpatrick?’ ‘Not less,’ answered Dulcie, ‘nor more. Sure,’ she added, with the most musical of brogues, ‘’twould be impossible!’ THE END. End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Lady Kilpatrick, by Robert Buchanan