Doreen sat staring till the chill of morning penetrated to her bones through the light robe of muslin. Then she crept stiff and weary into bed, while her teeth chattered and alternate douches of hot and cold water seemed pouring down her back. She had been studying Shane with a new interest, and trembled for her future peace, for, as she watched with senses sharpened, she was dismayed at the hideous preponderance of the animal in her cousin's nature. Never had she looked at him so earnestly before. It was like binding one's self to a hog for life. Sure Holofernes was not so degraded, or the fortitude of Judith would have given way. He was a warrior, mighty in battle, who, though an enemy, commanded respect. A glorious athlete such as 'tis woman's prerogative to outwit--as Delilah outwitted Samson, as Omphale conquered Hercules. Her ordeal too was of short duration. How differently severe would be the self-appointed task of this modern Judith, who contemplated tying herself deliberately for the whole of her life to a man who disgusted her in spite of his good looks; who, when shorn of the vulgar halo of animal courage, was no better than a brawler and a bravo. She might not strive to reform him, for with his reformation he would of course take the reins of his affairs, and the power of his wife would end, for which alone she married him. It would be her duty rather to encourage him in evil ways, and coax him down the ladder. Was she capable, she kept asking herself, as shuddering she drew the sheets around her, of so tremendous a sacrifice as this? Tone's, sublime as she considered it, was nothing to what hers would be. He had thrown away earthly pelf, was a fugitive and an outlaw; but he retained his self-respect. Could she retain hers if Shane became her husband? No. Doreen confessed to herself that the position would be impossible. If it had been Terence, now! He was foolish and gay and distressingly healthy; under no pressure whatever could he bud into a hero. He was humdrum, and her native romance revolted from the humdrum. A fine grown man with a good temper and a prosaic appetite. Why, if he were to occupy Shane's shoes, all Dublin would be envying her luck and remarking how brazenly she had set her cap at him. Horror of horrors! How terribly commonplace! Then the girl upbraided herself for such foolish thoughts. Terence would never become Lord Glandore, and as a simple fisherman and sportsman could never win his cousin. Perhaps my lady was right in warning her to remember that he was grown up. He was a dear good boy, but wofully prosaic. But what had such as she to do with unmaidenly meditations anent marrying and giving in marriage? Sackcloth and ashes were the portion of the Catholics, who were treated as the Jews had been by the Crusaders. The sooner they died out the better. What a wonderful idea that was of Aunt Glandore's! If she were seriously bent on anything, she was not easy to baffle.