For the full course of the path she went on steadily; but reaching the glen, she paused; and there, as if by a pre-arrangement of destiny, Milbanke overtook her. With a quiet, unostentatious movement he stepped to her side, and stood looking upon the scene that spread before them. The view was not imposing, but it was beautiful with the brooding, solemn beauty that emanates from Ireland. Upon one hand, the sea stretched away green, invincible, and cold as it so often looks in early spring; upon the other, the woods lay a mass of leafless, interlacing boughs that formed a clean, brown silhouette against the grey sky; while directly in front, the first undulation of the rugged Orristown cliffs stood up, an impregnable rampart against the outer world. For a long silent moment Clodagh surveyed the picture; then with one of the impulsive, unstudied gestures that were so characteristic of her, she looked round; and for the first time since they had left the house, her eyes rested on Milbanke's face. "You are very kind to me," she said suddenly. "Why are you so kind?" The words, spoken with complete ingenuousness, came at a singularly appropriate moment. To Milbanke, nervously conscious of his own emotions, they seemed inspired. With a quick, unsteady gesture he wheeled round, and putting out his hand, caught hers. "It--it is easy to be kind to some people," he said, almost inarticulately. Clodagh looked at him in some surprise; but it did not occur to her to withdraw her hand. She stood perfectly calm and unembarrassed; and presently, as he made no attempt at further speech, her glance wandered back to the cool stretch of green water. "Yes," she said slowly, "I suppose it is easy to be nice to some people; but not to selfish people like me." At her words, Milbanke's hand tightened abruptly. "You must not say that," he murmured. "I have never seen any faults in your character. And even--even if I had"--his voice quickened confusedly--"even if I had seen them, you would still be the--the child of my oldest friend." He spoke disjointedly and agitatedly; but at his words, Clodagh turned to him afresh with a grateful, impulsive movement. "Ah, then I understand!" she said warmly. "You are very kind--you are very good----" At her movement and her tone, a mental giddiness seized upon Milbanke. A flush rose to his temples. "Clodagh," he said suddenly, "let me be kind to you always! Let--let me marry you--and be kind to you always!" The appeal came forth with volcanic suddenness. He had not meant to be precipitate; it was entirely alien to his slow, methodical nature to plunge headlong into any situation. But the occasion was unprecedented; circumstances overwhelmed him. For a long space he stood as if transfixed, his eyes straining to catch the expression on Clodagh's face, his pale, ascetic features puckered with anxiety.