Mave now examined him somewhat more earnestly than she had done; and although grieved at his thin and wasted appearance, yet she could not help being forcibly struck by the singular clearness and manly beauty of his features.  And yet this beauty filled her heart with anything but satisfaction; for on contemplating it, she saw that it was over-shadowed by an expression of such settled sorrow and dejection, as it was impossible to look upon without the deepest compassion and sympathy.

“We had betther rest a little, dear Mave,” he said; “you must be fatigued, and so am I. Turn back a little, will you, an’ let us sit upon the Grey Stone; it’s the only thing in the shape of a seat that is now near us.  Have you any objection?”

“None in the world,” she replied; “I’ll be time enough at my uncle’s, especially as I don’t intend to come home to-night.”

They accordingly sauntered back, and took their seat upon a ledge of the stone in question, that almost concealed them from observation; after which the dialogue proceeded as follows: 

“Condy,” observed Mave, “I was glad to hear that you recovered from the fever; but I’m sorry to see you look so ill:  there is a great deal of care in your face.”

“There is, dear Mave; there is,” he replied, with a melancholy smile, “an’ a great deal of care in my heart.  You look thin yourself, and careworn too, dear.”

“We are not without our own struggles at home,” she replied, “as, indeed, who is now?  But we had more than ourselves to fret for.”

“Who?” he asked; but on putting the question, he saw a look of such tender reproach in her eye as touched him.

“Kind heart!” he exclaimed; “kindest and best of hearts, why should I ax such a question?  Surely I ought to know you.  I am glad I met you, Mave, for I have many things to say to you, an’ it’s hard to say when I may have an opportunity again.”

“I know that is true,” said she; “but I did not expect to meet you here.”

“Mave,” he proceeded, in a voice filled with melancholy and sadness, “you acknowledged that you loved me.”

She looked at him, and that look moved him to the heart.

“I know you do love me,” he proceeded, “and now, dear Mave, the thought of that fills my heart with sorrow.”

She started slightly, and looked at him again with a good deal of surprise; but on seeing his eyes filled with tears, she also caught the contagion, and asked with deep emotion: 

“Why, dear Condy?  Why does my love for you make your heart sorrowful?”

“Because I have no hope,” said he—­“no hope that ever you can be mine.”

Mave remained silent; for she knew the insurmountable obstacles that prevented their union; but she wept afresh.

“When I saw your father last, behind your garden, the day I struck Donnel Dhu,” Dalton proceeded, “I tould him what I then believed to be true, that my father never had a hand in your uncle’s death.  Mave, dear, I cannot tell a lie; nor I will not.  I couldn’t say as much to him now; I’m afeard that his death is on my father’s sowl.”