As they walked the deck of the steamer together, then, with a calm sea and a stilly night, he deemed the moment favourable to open his investigations. “Ah, yes!” said he, as though addressing some interlocutor within his own bosom--“ah, yes! she will indeed feel it a terrible contrast. None of the pleasures, none of the habits of her former life; none of the joys of the family, and none of the endearments of a home!” “Of whom were you speaking, Sir?” asked she, with a faint smile. “Dear me I dear me I what a man I am! That’s a habit my wife has been trying to break me of these fifteen years, Miss Luttrell; as she says: ‘Coles, take care that you never commit a murder, or you’re sure to tell it to the first person you meet.’ And so is it when anything occurs to engage my deepest interest--my strongest sympathy; it’s no use; do what I will, out it will come in spite of me.” “And I, Sir,” said she, with a slow and measured utterance, “am exactly the reverse. I no more think of speaking my thoughts aloud, than I should dream of imparting my family secrets, if I had any, to the first stranger whose impertinent curiosity might dispose him to penetrate them.” “Indeed!” cried he, reddening with shame. “Quite true, I assure you, Sir; and now I will wish you a goodnight, for it grows chilly here.” CHAPTER XLV. ON ARRAN Kate was awoke from a deep sleep by the noise of the boat coming to anchor. She started up, and looked around her, unable for several seconds to recal where she was. Behind the little land-locked bay the tall mountains rose, wild and fanciful, on every side; the dark sky studded with stars above, and the still darker sea beneath, still and waveless; and then the shore, where lights moved rapidly hither and thither; making up a picture strangely interesting to one to whom that lone rock was to be a home, that dreary spot in the wild ocean her whole world. There were a great many people on the shore awaiting her, partly out of curiosity, in part out of respect, and Molly Ryan had come down to say that his honour was not well enough to meet her, but he hoped in the morning he would be able. “You’re to be the same as himself here,” he says; “and every word you say is to be minded as if it was his own.” “I almost think I remember you; your face, and your voice too, seem to me as though I knew them before.” “So you may, Miss. You saw me here at the mistress’s wake, but don’t let on to the master, for he doesn’t like that any of us should think you was ever here afore. This is the path here, Miss; it’s a rough bit for your tender feet.” “Have we much farther to go, Molly? I am rather tired to-day.” “No, Miss; a few minutes more will bring us to the Abbey; but sure we’d send for a chair and carry you----” “No, no; on no account. It is only to-night I feel fatigued. My uncle’s illness is nothing serious, I hope?”