of the town.  Of one thing she was certain, she could not possibly suggest such an idea to her brother.  She could imagine too well his raised eyebrows and sarcastic words.  She must wait until he had broken all ties with the neighbourhood, and then she could come back without consulting him.  Her affianced husband’s personality she kept as much as possible in the background.  He was to be her fellow in good works, her superior in the skill and knowledge of a healer.  She had only seen him during her ministrations to the poor, only talked with him of their needs and his own aspirations, had hardly looked on him as a being in whom she could take a personal interest, until that moment in the sunset when she had in the impulse of a moment linked her life to his.

A dread began to creep over her of seeing him again.  How should she meet him?  Could she still keep him at a fitting distance?  Would he not feel that he had some claim upon her even now?

One morning, hearing wheels, she looked up from her half-hearted study of an Irish grammar and saw the well-known car and the bony grey horse appearing.  To fly out by the back door, catching up her hat on the way was the work of a second.  She ran down the laurel walk, crossed the stile, and was soon safely on her way to the Inchguile woods.

She was overtaken presently by a frieze-coated man, Martin Regan, who, though an Inchguile tenant and out of her usual beat, she had met once or twice, his bedridden father having sent to beg a visit from her.  Their holding was a poor one enough, but by constant hard work the son had managed to keep things going.  She knew the old woman who ruled in the house was his stepmother, but had not noticed any want of harmony in the family.  Rumours, however, had reached her lately that the old man had been making a will, by which he left the farm and all his possessions to his wife, who had already written to recall her own son from America to share the expected legacy with her.

These rumours came back to the mind of Louise Eden as she noticed the trouble in Martin Regan’s face.

“I was just going up to speak to your honour, miss,” he said, “when I seen you going through the gate, so I followed you to tell of the trouble I’m in.”

“Is what I have heard true, then?” asked Louise.  “Surely your father could not be so unjust as to leave the farm you have worked on so hard away from you?”

“It’s true indeed, miss,” said Martin.  “And I’m after going to the agent about it, for Sir Richard is away, and if he could hear of it—­he’s a good landlord and would never see me wronged.  But he says all the power is gone from the landlord now, and that if the old man was to leave the land to Parnell or another and away from all his own blood the law couldn’t stop him.  So God help us!  I dunno at all what’ll I do.”

“Had you any quarrel with your father that led to this?” asked Louise, with sympathy that won the confidence of her companion, who had walked on with her to the woods, where their path was brilliantly bordered by the opaque red berries of the mountain ash, and the transparent hues of the guelder-rose.