“I have come to ask how you are,” she said, “and to tell you how very sorry I am—­we are—­for your accident.  I am doubly grieved because—­” and she stopped, embarrassed at having to speak before a third person.  The Doctor’s eyes were fixed on her face with the same glad smile.

“I wanted to see you,” he said gently, “but I never thought you would come to this poor place.  I wanted to tell you I had seen old Regan before I was hurt, and I did my best for him, and I think he won’t die yet awhile.”

“I am sorry,” began Louise again, and then hesitated.  How could she explain for how much she was sorry?  How could she at this moment make any explanation at all?  “I am going away,” she went on—­“I am going to England with my brother to-morrow.  I have come to say good-bye.”

The eyes that rested on her lost none of their glad look of content; she was not sure if her words had been understood, and went on talking rather hurriedly of her brother’s arrangements, and who was to take his place, and of the long journey to Yorkshire.

“And now I must go,” she concluded, “for I have a good deal to do at home.”

The hand which lay on the counterpane sought a little packet beside the pillow.

“This was for you,” he said, handing it to her.

She said good-bye again, and went slowly away; but, turning at the door, she was filled once more with keen remorse at the sight of the strong frame laid low, and the glance that followed her was so full of wistfulness that she felt that she would have stooped and, in asking forgiveness, have kissed the white-bandaged brow, if it had not been for the nun’s silent presence.

It was not until late at night that she remembered and opened the little packet.  It contained a massive marriage ring, such as were used by the fisher-folk on the Galway coast.  She was troubled at seeing it.  The strong-clasped hands and golden heart were an emblem that vexed her.  She felt that while she kept it she could not be free from the promise she had given, and that her farewell could not have been understood as a final one.  She determined to leave it at the Doctor’s house as she passed to-morrow, and wrote, to enclose with it, a letter, penitent, humble, begging forgiveness for the wrong she had thoughtlessly done to so good and loyal a friend.  She did not care now if others read it; she must confess her desertion and implore pardon.  The letter was blotted with tears as she folded it round the heavy ring.

But that ring of betrothal was never returned.  In the morning, as Colonel Eden and his sister drove for the last time into Cloon, they saw groups of frieze-coated men and blue-cloaked women whispering together with sad faces, and a shutter being closed over each little shop window.

And when they came to the Doctor’s house they saw that the blinds were all drawn down.

SONNET.