She paused at the stile; she liked the old pier; its partner next the river was in fragments, and the ruin and the survivor had both been clothed by good Mrs. Strafford—­who drew a little, and cultivated the picturesque—­with the roses I have mentioned, besides woodbine and ivy.  She had old Miss Wardle’s letter in her hand, full, of course, of shocking anecdotes about lunatics, and the sufferings of Fleet prisoners, and all the statistics, and enquiries, and dry little commissions, with which that worthy lady’s correspondence abounded.  It was open in her hand, and rustled sharp and stiffly in the air, but it was not inviting just then.  From that point it was always a pretty look down or up the river; and her eyes followed with the flow of its waters towards Inchicore.  She loved the river; and in her thoughts she wondered why she loved it—­so cold, so unimpressible—­that went shining and rejoicing away into the sea.  And just at that moment she heard a sweet tenor, with a gaiety somehow pathetic, sing not far away the words she remembered—­

  ’And she smiled upon the stream,
  Like one that smiles at folly,
  A dreamer on a dream.’

Devereux was coming—­it was his playful salutation.  Her large eyes dropped to the ground with the matchless blush of youth.  She was strangely glad, but vexed at having changed colour; but when he came up with her, in the deep shadow thrown by the old pier, with its thick festooneries, he could not tell, he only knew she looked beautiful.

’My dreams take wing, but my follies will not leave me.  And you have been ill, Miss Lilias?’

‘Oh, nothing; only a little cold.’

‘And I am going—­I only knew last night—­really going away.’  He paused; but the young lady did not feel called upon to say anything, and only allowed him to go on.  In fact, she was piqued, and did not choose to show the least concern about his movements.  ’And I’ve a great mind now that I’m departing this little world,’ and he glanced, it seemed to her, regretfully towards the village, ’to put you down, Miss Lily, if you will allow it, in my codicil for a legacy——­’

She laughed a pleasant little careless laugh.  How ill-natured! but, oh! wasn’t it musical.

’Then I suppose, if you were not to see me for some time, or maybe for ever, the village folks won’t break their hearts after Dick Devereux?’

And the gipsy captain smiled, and his eyes threw a soft violet shadow down upon her; and there was that in his tone which for a moment touched her with a strange reproach, like a bar of sweet music.

But little Lily was spirited; and if he, so early a friend, could go away without bidding good-bye, why he should not suppose she cared.

’Break our hearts?  Not at all, perhaps; but of course I—­the parson’s daughter—­I should, and old Moore, the barber, and Pat Moran, the hackney coachman, and Mrs. Irons your fat landlady, you’ve been so very good to all of us, you know.’