He certainly pursued, most imprudently “pursued the chase of youth and beauty;” nor would he, we fear, have dropped the chase till Peggy was his prey, but that _fortunately_, in the full headlong career of passion, he was suddenly startled and stopped by coming in view of an obstacle that he could not overleap--a greater wrong than he had foreseen, at least a different wrong, and in a form that made his heart tremble. He reined in his passion, and stood appalled. In the first hurry of that passion he had seen nothing, heard nothing, understood nothing, but that Peggy was pretty, and that he was in love. It happened one evening that he, with a rose yet unfaded in his hand--a rose which he had snatched from Peggy Sheridan--took the path towards Moriarty Carroll’s cottage. Moriarty, seeing him from afar, came out to meet him; but when he came within sight of the rose, Moriarty’s pace slackened, and turning aside, he stepped out of the path, as if to let Mr. Ormond pass. “How now, Moriarty?” said Harry. But looking in his face, he saw the poor fellow pale as death. “What ails you, Moriarty?” “A pain I just took about my heart,” said Moriarty, pressing both hands to his heart. “My poor fellow!--Wait!--you’ll be better just now, I hope,” said Ormond, laying his hand on Moriarty’s shoulder. “I’ll never be better of it, I fear,” said Moriarty, withdrawing his shoulder; and giving a jealous glance at the rose, he turned his head away again. “I’ll thank your honour to go on, and leave me--I’ll be better by myself. It is not to your honour, above all, that I can open my heart.” A suspicion of the truth now flashed across Ormond’s mind--he was determined to know whether it was the truth or not. “I’ll not leave you, till I know what’s the matter,” said he. “Then none will know that till I die,” said Moriarty; adding, after a little pause, “there’s no knowing what’s wrong withinside of a man till he is opened.” “But alive, Moriarty, if the heart is in the case only,” said Ormond, “a man can open himself to a friend.” “Ay, if he had a friend,” said Moriarty. “I’ll beg your honour to let me pass--I am able for it now--I am quite stout again.” “Then if you are quite stout again, I shall want you to row me across the lake.” “I am not able for that, sir,” replied Moriarty, pushing past him. “But,” said Ormond, catching hold of his arm, “aren’t you able or willing to carry a note for me?” As he spoke, Ormond produced the note, and let him see the direction--to Peggy Sheridan. “Sooner stab me to the heart _again_,” cried Moriarty, breaking from him. “Sooner stab myself to the heart then,” cried Ormond, tearing the note to bits. “Look, Moriarty: upon my honour, till this instant, I did not know you loved the girl--from this instant I’ll think of her no more--never more will I see her, hear of her, till she be your wife.” “Wife!” repeated Moriarty, joy illuminating, but fear as instantly darkening his countenance. “How will that be now?”