The early walk gave me a pleasant sense of adventure.  I was on my way to Castle Clody, and was wondering if I should find my godmother up and how I would tell her the good news.

By the time I arrived there the whole lawn and the hedges were shining with the diamonds of the frost in the good golden light, and glancing up at my godmother’s window I saw that her blind was up, and said to myself that she must be awake and about.  Of course she was always an early riser, though she would have me lie late a-bed when I stayed with her, saying it was good for young people to sleep.

The doors and windows of Castle Clody were always open to the fresh air; and as I went in by the open hall door I saw my godmother coming down the stairs.

“Why, bless me, it is Bawn!” she said.  “What brings you so early, child?  There is no bad news, I trust.  Your grandmother?”

“Was never better in her life.  Godmother dear, so many things have happened that I do not know where to begin.”

“Begin somewhere,” she said, after one quick look at me, and led the way into the little room where we usually had our meals together.  The fire was lit and the table set for breakfast, and the room looked very pleasant.  “Dido is not with you,” she said, closing the door behind us.

“No,” I returned.

“And how is that, Bawn?  How did she let you come alone?”

“As I came down the stairs in the dusk of the morning she lay on the mat outside Uncle Luke’s door, and when I called to her to come she wagged her old tail and would not come.  For the first time she would not follow me.  Godmother dear, isn’t it a strange thing that Maureen should have prepared his room yesterday, saying that he would be with us before night?”

“Bawn, Bawn,” cried my godmother, very pale, “if you do not mean that Luke L’Estrange has come home I can never forgive you.”

“And I should deserve not to be forgiven,” I said.  “He has come home.”

“I knew he was not dead.”

“He is alive and well, and one of the first inquiries he made was for you.”

“Now they shall see,” she said exultantly, and her lips curled, “how much truth there was in those slanders of Garret Dawson’s.  Dear old souls! why were they afraid?  Why would they not let me challenge him?”

“They were not so foolish,” I said.  “He held papers.  If Uncle Luke had not come home we could not have disproved them.”

“And there is an end to your marriage?” she asked breathlessly.

I held out my hand to her.  It no longer carried Richard Dawson’s ring.

“He set me free last night,” I said, “before we knew who was coming home.  You must clear him in your thoughts, godmother.  He never knew how his father had obtained our consent to the marriage.  He was furious when he knew and he set me free.  I wish I knew what had become of him.”

“Don’t trouble about him, child.  Presently you will find a lover worthy of you.”