“Did he say that?” They paused in their walk.

“Yes; and he meant it—­he means it now, if he could but say as much.”

“I thank you for telling me * * * Let us sit down here on this rustic seat.  Do you know, I believe your father has gotten over his first dislike for me.”

“O, yes, he has.  I think he likes you very much.”

“I was not surprised at his actions when I told him I was a ‘Mormon.’  He can hardly be blamed, in view of the life-long training he has had.  And then, knowing that you have been in danger from that source before made him over-sensitive on the point.  I marvel now that he treats me so well.”

Lucy looked her happiness, rather than expressed it.  The guide book lay open on her lap.  Chester picked it up, looked at a picture of Blarney Castle, and then read aloud: 

    “’There’s gravel walk there,
      For speculation,
      And conversation
    In sweet solitude. 
    ’Tis there the lover
      May hear the dove, or
    The gentle plover
      In the afternoon.’

“Lucy,” said Chester, as he closed the book, “I’m going to call you Lucy—­I can’t call you Miss Strong in such a lovely place as this.  We have an hour or two before we must return, and I want to talk over a few matters while we have the chance.  In the first place, I want you to tell me where you are going when you leave Ireland.  I want to keep track of you—­I don’t want to lose you.  If your father would not object, I should like to travel along with you.”

“Father may remain here a long time, so long that we may not get to see much of Europe, and of course, you can’t wait here for us.”

“Now listen, Lucy. You are Europe to me.  I believe you are the whole world.”

She did not turn from him, though she looked down to the grass where the point of her sunshade now rested.  Her face was diffused with color.

“Forgive me for saying so much,” he continued, “for I realize I am quite a stranger to you.”

“A stranger?” she asked.

“Yes; we have not known each other long.  You don’t know much about me.”

“I seem to have known you a long time,” she said, looking up.  “I often think I have met you before.  Sometimes I imagine you look like the young missionary whom I first heard on the streets of Kansas City; but of course, that can’t be.”

“No; I never was on a mission.  But I’m glad you think of me as you do, for then you’ll let me come and see you in London, in Paris and wherever you go.  I assure you, it would be rather uninteresting sight-seeing without your presence, if not always in person, then in spirit.  After all, much depends on the condition of the eyes with which one looks on an object whether it is interesting or not.”