Doreen knew quite well that Robert Emmett's was a lovable nature, that he was free from the ordinary frailties of youth, sensitive to a fault, just such a visionary as would suffer terribly in a great crisis such as was at hand. Just as Tone was a chivalrous man of action, so the younger Emmett was a dreamer of the most unpractical kind--one who, staring at the stars, and striving to pierce their mysteries, would plunge head-foremost into the first pitfall that was made ready for his feet. His admiration for Theobald was as great as Doreen's. When that cloud should burst, he would surely be found by his side--might possibly stumble where the other could stand erect--and, if aught befell him, what then would happen to the Primrose? But what is the use of courting melancholy? Doreen this morning, as at other times, shook off the dismal effects of her gay friend's castle-building, made efforts to meet her half-way, spoke hopefully of days to come, when Ireland should be content, when Sara should have become a wrinkled matron with a parterre of yellow blossoms round her, and beloved Robert a happy old paterfamilias with a treble chin. Sara's peachy cheeks broke into dimples of pleasure at the description, as she looked up sideways like a bird. 'You are wasting your holiest affections, my child!' Doreen observed demurely; 'for men are dreadful, dreadful creatures who deceive and ride away. They don't care about our love one bit, unless we pretend to withhold it.' 'I love him so very much,' returned Sara, with a rapt gaze and trembling accents, 'that I could be content to worship him from a long way off if he would let me--he is so good and kind and noble!' 'He has never spoken to you of love?' 'Never.' The child's eyes filled with tears, and Doreen's heart tightened for her. Poor fragile blossom. What might the nipping blast have in store for it? 'If any mischance were to befall him----' began the elder girl. 'I should die,' Sara answered simply, as though such a result was the only one which could be possible. Doreen walked on in silence. She was twenty-three, her companion five years younger. Yet she could not comprehend this innocent pure heart which at eighteen gave itself unconditionally away to be trampled upon or treasured as its recipient should elect. She was sure that she had herself never loved any one, except Tone, and her father, and her mother's memory. The iron of the Penal Code had seared the germ of such a love within her if it ever had existed. She recalled the cold way in which she had calculated her capacity for playing Judith, and felt ashamed. But why should she, after all? The practical and the romantic were singularly blended in her character. What had a Catholic to do with love and the exchanging of young hearts? Fretfully she turned away from the enchantments of conservatories and hen-houses which she was displaying to her friend, and remarked as she led the way to the kennels: