"Good-night, sir," she said. "I am utterly incapable of thanking you as
you deserve, and as I ought to thank you. Good-night!"

She extended her small snowy hand to him as she spoke. Reilly took it
in his, and by some voluntary impulse he could not avoid giving
it a certain degree of pressure. The fact is, it was such a
hand--so white--so small--so soft--so warm--so provocative of a
squeeze--that he felt his own pressing it, he knew not how nor
wherefore, at least he thought so at the time; that is to say, if he
were capable of thinking distinctly of any thing. But heaven and earth!
Was it true! No delusion? No dream? The pressure returned! the
slightest, the most gentle, the most delicate pressure--the barely
perceptible pressure! Yes! it was beyond all doubt; for although the act
itself was light as delicacy and modesty could make it, yet the
spirit--the lightening spirit--which it shot into his bounding and
enraptured heart could not be for a moment mistaken.

As she was running up the stairs she returned, however, and again
approaching her father, said--whilst Reilly could observe that her cheek
was flushed with a feeling that seemed to resemble ecstasy--"Papa,"
said she, "what a stupid girl I am! I scarcely know what I am saying or
doing."

"By the great Boyne," replied her father, "I'll describe him to you
every night in the week. I knew the curve--the line of beauty--would get
into your head; but what is it, darling?"

"Will you and Mr. Reilly have tea in the drawing-room, or shall I send
it down to you?"