But I know there are two people under this roof, who find these days of siege-like seclusion, days of very real, definite happiness.

They keep it to themselves so far, but I think the time must come soon, when it will be announced formally. Meanwhile I do my best not to disturb their enjoyment of each other's company by the presence of a third. When mother takes my place in Roderick's sick room, I come away up here to my little turret boudoir, and employ the long silent hours, day by day, in writing these pages. How I miss the view of sea and sky and rocks from my window, which, although in this upper storey, has been doomed to perpetual fastenings. I often feel as I look around on the familiar old oak wainscotting, darkened throughout the house by these strange fortifications; when I meet armed soldiers pacing the passages, and see swords and spears hang below the old, peaceful family portraits, and know that however much I may pine for the fresh air of the moors, I may not pass beyond the few circumscribed paces of the rock terrace immediately beneath the windows, and only then under the sur

veillance of a sentry who keeps the door-I often feel like a prisoner in my own home. At times I rebel against it all, and wish ourselves free once more to come and go at will; but then again, I remember quite sadly that the day must come, sooner or later, when our garrison will be ordered away, and Roderick will be taken from us, and the soldiers and their cheery, kindly clatter and chatter, will have to go . and Captain Dudley . . . and we shall be left all alone as before-and it seems to me that it will belonelier then than ever it was before-and . . I cannot bear to think of it.

So I make up my mind to be a prisoner, and try to believe that mother and Captain Dudley are right when they say I cannot be allowed even to cross the moor to visit poor old Charlie Delany, whom we hear is very ill.

September 21st.-A bitter blow has come to us-it is true it is what we might have guessed, and perhaps did in our inmost thoughts guess might come, but it seems to us not less bitter to bear for that.

All over the country-on country gate and

on town wall-at church door and at village market-there is affixed in large, legible letters of black and white a proclamation. It is headed

and begins,

66

"Five Hundred Pounds Reward." It is in the name of the Lord Lieutenant of Ireland Cornwallis," and then continues in less conspicuous characters, until midway there stands out another name"Kevin O'Rossa."

Ah, but the people are on his side-he has the hearts of the people-they will befriend him-there is not one-surely there is not one of them who will betray him—not one who would give him up to death though tempted by all the gold that England can offer.

That is the comfort I keep repeating to myself again and again.

But when I think of the spies and the enemies on all sides, then this comfort fails.

September 22nd.-Letters from Dublin have reached us at last. They were written just after learning of our proposed return

from Dooncandra; they tell of the safe arrival of Mr. Roche and Geraldine: they had seen my father and Denis: Geraldine writes a descriptive letter to me, telling of life in the City, and what a wonderful contrast it is to our wild bogs and moors. She could be gay, she writes, and enjoy the change if it were not that her heart is heavy and her hopes and thoughts far away. She knows that I need no explanation of that. It is a great disappointment to her that after all we should not have followed them to Dublin. She longs to be back at Lara-she misses all -home and friends and associations, and the sea and hills and country. There is no one to speak to her of Kevin-the only three in all the City who know him shun the very sound of his name. The rest of her letter is filled with questionings and speculations about him; had I received one word of news -had Martha McGrath heard anything?

Ah, what will she say when she learns the only news I have to give?

CHAPTER XIV.

September 23rd.-I have no one but my diary to whom to talk out my fears and hopes, and so I turn to it as to an old friend, and find a relief in throwing down facts and feelings on paper.

I do not mean I have no comfort in telling all to One who is better than the most sympathizing of earthly friends: with the best will, often all they can do is to be sorry too, but He does more than sympathise-He helps.

If it were not for that, dark indeed would be the dismay which would overwhelm me this day.

I was sitting this morning on the terrace steps, in the warm, September sunshine-a book lay open on my lap. I was not reading, and the breeze fluttered the pages as my attention wandered to a flight of seagulls. soaring overhead, their wings shining white in the sunlight. I was envying their careless freedom.

A voice at my side recalled my thoughts,