“I used to think he was dead.”

“But now you think he is alive?”

“I think he is;—­but I do not know.  I never saw my father so as to remember him; though I do remember that we used to be very unhappy when we were in Spain.”

“And what have you heard lately?  Tell me the truth, you know.”

“Of course I shall tell you the truth, Fred. I think mother got a letter, but she did not shew it me.  She said just a word, but nothing more.  Father Marty will certainly know if she knows.”

“And you know nothing?”

“Nothing.”

“I think I must ask Father Marty.”

“But will it matter to you?” Kate asked.

“At any rate it shall not matter to you,” he said, kissing her.  And then again she was happy; though there had now crept across her heart the shadow of some sad foreboding, a foretaste of sorrow that was not altogether bitter as sorrow is, but which taught her to cling closely to him when he was there and would fill her eyes with tears when she thought of him in his absence.

On this day he had not found Mrs. O’Hara at the cottage.  She had gone down to Liscannor, Kate told him.  He had sent his boat back to the strand near that village, round the point and into the bay, as it could not well lie under the rocks at high tide, and he now asked Kate to accompany him as he walked down.  They would probably meet her mother on the road.  Kate, as she tied on her hat, was only too happy to be his companion.  “I think,” he said, “that I shall try and see Father Marty as I go back.  If your mother has really heard anything about your father, she ought to have told me.”

“Don’t be angry with mother, Fred.”

“I won’t be angry with you, my darling,” said the master with masterful tenderness.

Although he had intimated his intention of calling on the priest that very afternoon, it may be doubted whether he was altogether gratified when he met the very man with Mrs. O’Hara close to the old burying ground.  “Ah, Mr. Neville,” said the priest, “and how’s it all wid you this many a day?”

“The top of the morning to you thin, Father Marty,” said Fred, trying to assume an Irish brogue.  Nothing could be more friendly than the greeting.  The old priest took off his hat to Kate, and made a low bow, as though he should say,—­to the future Countess of Scroope I owe a very especial respect.  Mrs. O’Hara held her future son-in-law’s hand for a moment, as though she might preserve him for her daughter by some show of affection on her own part.  “And now, Misthress O’Hara,” said the priest, “as I’ve got a companion to go back wid me, I’m thinking I’ll not go up the hill any further.”  Then they parted, and Kate looked as though she were being robbed of her due because her lover could not give her one farewell kiss in the priest’s presence.

CHAPTER II.

Is she to be your wife?