Father Marty, and would come, when the tide was low, direct from Lahinch to the strand beneath the cliffs, from whence there was a path through the rocks up to Ardkill.  And there he would remain for hours,—­having his gun with him, but caring little for his gun.  He told himself that he loved the rocks and the wildness of the scenery, and the noise of the ocean, and the whirring of the birds above and below him.  It was certainly true that he loved Kate O’Hara.

“Neville, you must answer me a question,” said the mother to him one morning when they were out together, looking down upon the Atlantic when the wind had lulled after a gale.

“Ask it then,” said he.

“What is the meaning of all this?  What is Kate to believe?”

“Of course she believes that I love her better than all the world besides,—­that she is more to me than all the world can give or take.  I have told her at least, so often, that if she does not believe it she is little better than a Jew.”

“You must not joke with me now.  If you knew what it was to have one child and only that you would not joke with me.”

“I am quite in earnest.  I am not joking.”

“And what is to be the end of it?”

“The end of it!  How can I say?  My uncle is an old man,—­very old, very infirm, very good, very prejudiced, and broken-hearted because his own son, who died, married against his will.”

“You would not liken my Kate to such as that woman was?”

“Your Kate!  She is my Kate as much as yours.  Such a thought as that would be an injury to me as deep as to you.  You know that to me my Kate, our Kate, is all excellence,—­as pure and good as she is bright and beautiful.  As God is above us she shall be my wife,—­but I cannot take her to Scroope Manor as my wife while my uncle lives.”

“Why should any one be ashamed of her at Scroope Manor?”

“Because they are fools.  But I cannot cure them of their folly.  My uncle thinks that I should marry one of my own class.”

“Class;—­what class?  He is a gentleman, I presume, and she is a lady.”

“That is very true;—­so true that I myself shall act upon the truth.  But I will not make his last years wretched.  He is a Protestant, and you are Catholics.”

“What is that?  Are not ever so many of your lords Catholics?  Were they not all Catholics before Protestants were ever thought of?”

“Mrs. O’Hara, I have told you that to me she is as high and good and noble as though she were a Princess.  And I have told you that she shall be my wife.  If that does not content you, I cannot help it.  It contents her.  I owe much to her.”

“Indeed you do;—­everything.”

“But I owe much to him also.  I do not think that you can gain anything by quarrelling with me.”

She paused for a while before she answered him, looking into his face the while with something of the ferocity of a tigress.  So intent was her gaze that his eyes quailed beneath it.  “By the living God,” she said, “if you injure my child I will have the very blood from your heart.”