"Oh, I couldn't!" she cried again--"I couldn't!" And before Milbanke could reply--before he had time to comprehend the purport of her words--she had turned and fled in the direction of the house, leaving him standing as he was, dazed and petrified. Upward along the path, Clodagh ran. Her impulse towards flight had been childish, and her thoughts as she sped forward were as unreasonable and confused as a child's. She was vaguely, blindly filled with a desire to escape--from she knew not what; to evade--she knew not what. Her one clear thought was that the prop upon which she had leaned in these days of sorrow and despair had unaccountably and suddenly been withdrawn; and that she stood woefully alone and unprotected. On she ran, until the archway of the courtyard broke into view; then, without a moment's hesitation, she swerved to the left, sped across the yard, and burst unceremoniously into the kitchen. In the kitchen Hannah was busying herself over the fire that, in the confusion of the morning's event, had been suffered to die down. At the tempestuous opening of the door she turned sharply round, and for a second stood staring at the disturbed face of her young mistress; then, with the intuitive tact of her race, she suddenly opened her ample arms, and with a sob Clodagh rushed towards her. For a long moment Hannah held her as if she had been a baby, patting her shoulder and smoothing her ruffled hair, while she cried out her grief and bewilderment. At last, with a slow sobbing breath, she raised her head. "Oh, Hannah, I want father!" she said--"I want father!" Hannah drew her closer to her broad shoulder. "Whisht, now!" she murmured tenderly--"whisht, now! Sure, he's betther off--sure, he's betther off." But Clodagh's mind was too agitated to take comfort. With a change of mental attitude, she altered her physical position--freeing herself abruptly from Hannah's embrace. "Hannah," she cried suddenly, "Mr. Milbanke wants me to marry him. And I won't! I can't! I won't!" Hannah's eyes narrowed sharply. But whatever her emotion, she checked it, and bent over her charge with another caress. "Sure you won't, of course, my lamb. Who'd be askin' you?" "No one." "Thin why would you be frettin' yourself?" "I'm not fretting myself. Only----" "Only what?" "Only---- Oh! nothing, nothing." With a distressed movement Clodagh pushed back her hair from her forehead. Then she turned to the old servant afresh. "Hannah," she demanded, "why does he want to marry me? Why does he want to?" Hannah was silent for a space; then her shrewd, ugly face puckered into an expression of profound wisdom. "Men are quare," she said oracularly. "The oulder, the quarer. Maybe he's thinkin' of himself in the matther; but maybe"--her voice dropped impressively--"maybe, Miss Clodagh, 'tis the way he's thinkin' of you----" She paused with deep significance. The effort after effect was not wasted. Clodagh looked up sharply. "What do you mean?" she asked.