A week afterwards Hardress visited his parents at their Killarney
residence, to find that his mother, with her niece, Anne Chute, had gone
to a grand ball in the neighbourhood. His father was spending the night
with his boon fellows, and a favourite old huntsman lay dying in a room
near by. This retainer told his young master that Anne Chute loved him
well, and that she deserved a better fortune than to love without
return. Hardress went to bed, and was awakened by his mother upon her
return. She reproved him for his long absence, and told him of the
sensation his beautiful cousin was making in society. In the morning he
met Anne with some consciousness and distress. A womanly reserve and
delicacy made the girl unwilling to affect an intimacy that might not be
graciously acknowledged. She treated him coldly, and began to read some
silly novel of the day.

"Ah, Eily, my own, own Eily!" he murmured to himself. "You are worth
this fine lady a hundred times over!"

His mother appeared; her raillery entrapped both him and Anne in a scene
of coquetry. No longer embarrassed by the feeling of strangeness and
apprehension which had depressed her spirits on their first meeting
after his return from college, Anne now assumed ease and liveliness of
manner. Every hour he spent in her society removed from his mind the
prejudice he had conceived against her, and supplied its place with a
feeling of strong kindness. When he left the merry circle to return to
Eily, blank regret fell suddenly upon his heart. But the sorrow which
Anne manifested at his departure, and the cordial pleasure with which
she heard of his intention to return soon, inspired him with the
strangest happiness. The next time he thought of Eily and his cousin,
the conjunction was less favourable to the former.