Was it fitting that he should ask such a woman to be his wife?  But then Mr. Kennedy was the son of a man who had walked into Glasgow with half-a-crown in his pocket.  Mr. Kennedy’s grandfather had been,—­Phineas thought that he had heard that Mr. Kennedy’s grandfather had been a Scotch drover; whereas his own grandfather had been a little squire near Ennistimon, in county Clare, and his own first cousin once removed still held the paternal acres at Finn Grove.  His family was supposed to be descended from kings in that part of Ireland.  It certainly did not become him to fear Lady Laura on the score of rank, if it was to be allowed to Mr. Kennedy to proceed without fear on that head.  As to wealth, Lady Laura had already told him that her fortune was no greater than his.  Her statement to himself on that head made him feel that he should not hesitate on the score of money.  They neither had any, and he was willing to work for both.  If she feared the risk, let her say so.

It was thus that he argued with himself; but yet he knew,—­knew as well as the reader will know,—­that he was going to do that which he had no right to do.  It might be very well for him to wait,—­presuming him to be successful in his love,—­for the opening of that oyster with his political sword, that oyster on which he proposed that they should both live; but such waiting could not well be to the taste of Lady Laura Standish.  It could hardly be pleasant to her to look forward to his being made a junior lord or an assistant secretary before she could establish herself in her home.  So he told himself.  And yet he told himself at the same time that it was incumbent on him to persevere.

“I did not expect you in the least,” said Lady Laura.

“And yet I spoke very positively.”

“But there are things as to which a man may be very positive, and yet may be allowed to fail.  In the first place, how on earth did you get home?”

“Mr. Kennedy got me a pony,—­Donald Bean’s pony.”

“You told him, then?”

“Yes; I told him why I was coming, and that I must be here.  Then he took the trouble to come all the way off the mountain to persuade Donald to lend me his pony.  I must acknowledge that Mr. Kennedy has conquered me at last.”

“I am so glad of that,” said Lady Laura.  “I knew he would,—­unless it were your own fault.”

They went up the path by the brook, from bridge to bridge, till they found themselves out upon the open mountain at the top.  Phineas had resolved that he would not speak out his mind till he found himself on that spot; that then he would ask her to sit down, and that while she was so seated he would tell her everything.  At the present moment he had on his head a Scotch cap with a grouse’s feather in it, and he was dressed in a velvet shooting-jacket and dark knickerbockers; and was certainly, in this costume, as handsome a man as any woman would wish to see.  And there was, too, a look of breeding