as if it had been washed. She had no trimming
on her hat but a thick black veil, which was
thrown backward over it. She looked so scarlet-
cheeked on entering, that I was surprised to see
how pale her natural complexion was when she
had thrown aside her hat and seated herself at the
other side of her father's chair. She had hazel
eyes, and a profusion of light hair clinging in
crushed masses to her head; but I did not like
to look at her much; she seemed so shy and
proud. The eagle left his window immediately,
and mounted guard on the back of her chair.

Sir Pierce's conversation was piteous to hear,
so grand, so inflated, so ill matched with his
surroundings. Yet he was not out of his senses,
only anxious to remind us that he was O'Shaughnessy
of Castle Shaughnessy. He tortured
Peg, who bore it all with the constancy of a
martyr. Now and again there was a burning
blush, and a hurried glance in her father's face,
then she was pale and proud and passive.

"Order wine," he said at last, with a grand
air, as if he knew that a banquet was in course
of preparation.

"Father," she said distinctly, and looking
him firmly in the face, "you know we have no
wine. There is no such thing here."

Well, I am not going to dwell further on the
memory of this visit. Sir Pierce turned white,
then purple, and we thought he was going to
have a fit. A glance of entreaty shot from
Peg's piteous eyes to mine; and we departed.

"Ah, well," said Gorman, "we have got
enough of that place. Poor Peg! she is prettier
than ever."

We passed out again through the hollowness
and the emptiness, the mildew and the rust, and
the dreary fallen greatness, of Castle Shaughnessy.
Lady Fitzgibbon prattled on my left
that day at dinner, and when the champagne
corks began to fly, I thought I heard her say (or
at least some woman's voice), "Father, you know
we have no wine." Of course it was a fancy.
Trinkets and smiles had Lucretia, but that
pained earnest tone was no part of her.

I need not detail to you, Tom, all our schemes
for inducing Peg O'Shaughnessy to be one of our
house-warming party. She came against her will,
but in obedience to her father's commands. A
carriage was sent for her, with muffling, for it was
a bitter frosty night, and good Mrs. Daly, my
housekeeper, had lived once in the O'Shaughnessy
family, and had a kindly regard for the motherless
girl. We expected her at dinner, but she
did not arrive. What could occasion her delay?
A fit of Sir Pierce's madness, a need of decent
garb, a passion of pride at the prospect of
appearing among those who had talked of her
misfortunes? A hundred such reasons were
hinted at among the ladies after dinner, with
many a "Poor thing!" and commiserating shake
of the head. I remember the night well. The
moon was bright upon the snow outside, and
within every hearth was blazing, every shutter
shut, and every room and passage full of light
and warmth and pleasant sounds of life. The
drawing-room was a perfect picture of
comfort, with its winter logs burning, its wadded
curtains spread before the wide windows, its
wreaths of holly already clinging to the picture-
frames, and its social company. There was a
group around the piano, a happy disposal of
couples throughout the room, and Lady
Fitzgibbon had a coterie gathered round her while
she assigned the parts for certain forthcoming
charades. Tracey was leaning over her chair,
sulky with jealousy because she was bestowing
most of her attention on me: which she usually
did. Some one suggested Miss O'Shaughnessy
to fill an awkward gap in the cast, and another
remarked, "She may not be here."

"Ah, no doubt she will be here," said
Lucretia, dropping her voice and eyelids just the
least bit in life, and speaking to her nearest female
neighbour. "What has she left to hope for in
her position, except an advantageous marriage?
Poor girl, no doubt she will come!"

Upon this, I removed Gorman's cause of
jealousy, by taking myself away from the drawing-
room, and out to the front door to look at the
night. What was it to me whether a ruined
fox-hunter's pretty daughter was coming to my
house on a matrimonial speculation or not? But
two of my best horses had gone in that carriage,
and I was beginning to be uneasy lest something
might have happened to them by the way. I went
round to the stable, quietly saddled a horse, and
cantered up the road leading seaward towards
Castle Shaughnessy. My fears were realised.
At the top of a high hill I found the carriage,
sunk into a rut concealed by the snow. A
smith was busy at the wheels, surrounded by
a little group of lookers-on, and a lantern glared
on their faces. At some distance a dark figure
was standing alone, over against a white fence.
This was Peg, with a little hood drawn round
her head, and the moon shining on her face.

Hearing that the carriage would not be ready
for some time, I gave my horse in charge to one
of the men, and offering myself as escort to the
young lady, asked her to proceed with me on
foot towards Ballyhuckamore. She was most
unwilling to do so, almost beseeching me to
return as I had come, and leave her to follow at
the blacksmith's pleasure. Of course, I would
not hear of that, and she consented at last to
accompany me.

I don't know that there was anything peculiar
about that walk, and yet I have a singularly
clear recollection of it. I had often travelled
the same road, followed the same paths and
turnings on the outskirts of the wood, seen the moon
looking through the same rifts among the trees,
and yet, somehow, it all seemed new that night.
I did not attempt to account for this
phenomenon. I tried to draw out my companion.
She conversed with naïve cleverness, all the
while keeping a touch of defiant pride in
her manner, as if she felt herself in the
presence of a natural enemy, and was
determined not to be tricked into forgetting it. I
humoured her in this, thinking her a child of
nature, who knew nothing of the world.