aunt; but even that letter sufficed to make it almost certain that he could never marry the girl.  He acknowledged that he had bound himself not to do so.  And then, in spite of all that he said about the mendacity of Castle Quin, he did believe the little history.  And it was quite out of the question that he should marry the daughter of a returned galley-slave.  He did not think that any jury in England would hold him to be bound by such a promise.  Of course he would do whatever he could for his dear Kate; but, even after all that had passed, he could not pollute himself by marriage with the child of so vile a father.  Poor Kate!  Her sufferings would have been occasioned not by him, but by her father.

In the meantime Kate’s letters to him became more and more frequent, more and more sad,—­filled ever with still increasing warmth of entreaty.  At last they came by every post, though he knew how difficult it must be for her to find daily messengers into Ennistimon.  Would he not come and see her?  He must come and see her.  She was ill and would die unless he came to her.  He did not always answer these letters, but he did write to her perhaps twice a week.  He would come very soon,—­as soon as Johnstone had come back from his fishing.  She was not to fret herself.  Of course he could not always be at Ardkill.  He too had things to trouble him.  Then he told her he had received letters from home which caused him very much trouble; and there was a something of sharpness in his words, which brought from her a string of lamentations in which, however, the tears and wailings did not as yet take the form of reproaches.  Then there came a short note from Mrs. O’Hara herself.  “I must beg that you will come to Ardkill at once.  It is absolutely necessary for Kate’s safety that you should do so.”

When he received this he thought that he would go on the morrow.  When the morrow came he determined to postpone the journey another day!  The calls of duty are so much less imperious than those of pleasure!  On that further day he still meant to go, as he sat about noon unbraced, only. partly dressed in his room at the barracks.  His friend Johnstone was back in Ennis, and there was also a Cornet with the troop.  He had no excuse whatever on the score of military duty for remaining at home on that day.  But he sat idling his time, thinking of things.  All the charm of the adventure was gone.  He was sick of the canoe and of Barney Morony.  He did not care a straw for the seals or wild gulls.  The moaning of the ocean beneath the cliff was no longer pleasurable to him,—­and as to the moaning at their summit, to tell the truth, he was afraid of it.  The long drive thither and back was tedious to him.  He thought now more of the respectability of his family than of the beauty of Kate O’Hara.