Eileen made no reply. It was not a subject she could discuss, and she knew, moreover, that it was one upon which she and Paddy could never agree. For she had not forgotten Lawrence at all, and still, deep down in her heart, lived a hope that she could not extinguish. When we desire a thing with a great and terrible longing, it is very hard to honestly and squarely face the fact that it can never be ours. If there is any possible chance of fitting in a “perhaps,” that “perhaps” is pretty sure to be there. Eileen had managed to find more than one chance, and the really nice letter that Lawrence had written her directly he heard of the General’s death, and while the news still had a softening effect upon him, had only more firmly entrenched them. It was unfortunate, but it was the way of the world. The fine-strung nervous system that holds the deepest capacity for suffering is oftenest jarred upon and hurt by rough, careless hands and cold, selfish hearts. And always, too, are these the sufferers who hope and remember the longest in spite of all. Paddy felt vaguely that Eileen still loved and still hoped and her loyal heart was furious with Lawrence. But she was obliged to content herself with scathingly picking his letter to pieces in her own mind, for she recognised that no good could some of saying these kind of things to Eileen, and she would just have to stand aside and let matters take their own course. “I suppose he might come back,” she reasoned, with a worried feeling; “but it is not very likely, and a very questionable benefit if he did.” Yet, when, as the days went by, she saw the quiet sadness still paramount in Eileen’s eyes, and knew that all her happiness was forced, she felt a great longing to have it settled one way or another for all their sakes. The shadow hung heavily upon the mother also, and Paddy easily saw that it was not London and her loss only that kept her so worn and ill-looking.