all young men in France were atheists, that other fact remained, that next Sunday, when she started for Knock Ceoil church, Larry, if he went anywhere, would go to the white chapel on the hill.  Aunt Freddy was afraid of no one where she believed herself to be right (and the Spirit of the Nation had long since assured her of this in matters of religion); least of all was she afraid of “a brat of a boy,” whom, as she boasted, she had often whipped soundly when he deserved it.  But, unfortunately, the brat had her heart in his hands, and her heart was softer than Aunt Freddy knew; and this gave the brat an unfair advantage.

“Then you know, Larry,” she continued, her eyes showing what her firm mouth did not admit; “you know, my dear boy, it was rather—­well, rather a shock to us to see in the papers your name proposed as the Nationalist candidate here.  It upset Dick very much, and, I must say,” she added, unflinchingly, “me too!”

Larry put down the third piece of cake, half-finished, and went round the tea-table, and sitting on the arm of Frederica’s chair, put his arm round her thin shoulders.

“I’m so sorry!” he said, knowing his power, and using it, “dear Auntie Fred!  I ought to have written to you.  I forgot all about the beastly thing.  But you wouldn’t want me to go back of my word?  As for the property—­well, I thought that was only my own affair.  I’ve come all right out of it; why shouldn’t I give the tenants the best terms I could?”

“Cousin Dick says—­” began Frederica, standing to her guns.

“And that other show,” went on Larry, disregarding what Cousin Dick might have said.  “Goodness knows when there’ll be an election—­”

“That doesn’t alter the fact,” said Frederica, firmly.

“Yes, I know.  Of course I must hold by my own convictions, but let’s put off the row until the time comes!  One is bound to have rows at elections!  I don’t want to fight now!”

He pressed a kiss upon her forehead.  He was feeling in love and charity with all men.  To wheedle Aunt Freddy into forgiveness was the first outlet that presented itself for the excitement that was consuming him.

Larry walked to Mount Music through the Wood of the Ownashee, alone.  Miss Coppinger said she disliked the short way across the river by the stepping stones, and preferred to drive the now venerable Tommy round by the road; in her heart, brave as she was, she trusted that Larry would have got through his meeting with Dick before she arrived.  Therefore did Larry step along the pebbly path by the river, under the dense canopy of beechen boughs, with, for companions, only the two hound puppies that Bill Kirby did not fail to foist annually upon all amenable friends.  These lumbered after Larry’s quick foot, with all the engaging absurdity of their kind; tripping over their own enormous feet, chewing outlying portions of one another, as ill-brought-up babies chew their blankets; sitting down abruptly and unpremeditatedly,