unprepared for--I mean--to hear that such noble and generous conduct to
my father should end in this. But it cannot be. Nay, I will not pretend
to misunderstand you. After the service you have rendered to him and to
myself, it would be uncandid in me and unworthy of you to conceal the
distress which your words have caused me."

"I am scarcely in a condition to speak reasonably and calmly," replied
Reilly, "but I cannot regret that I have unconsciously sacrificed my
happiness, when that sacrifice has saved you from distress and grief and
sorrow. Now that I know you, I would offer--lay down--my life, if the
sacrifice could save yours from one moment's care. I have often heard of
what love--love in its highest and noblest sense--is able to do and to
suffer for the good and happiness of its object, but now I know it."

She spoke not, or rather she was unable to speak; but as she pulled
out her snow-white handkerchief, Reilly could observe the extraordinary
tremor of her hands; the face, too, was deadly pale.

"I am not making love to you, Miss Folliard," he added. "No, my
religion, my position in life, a sense of my own unworthiness, would
prevent that; but I could not rest unless you knew that there is one
heart which, in the midst of unhappiness and despair, can understand,
appreciate, and love you. I urge no claim. I am without hope."

The fair girl (_Cooleen Bawn_) could not restrain her tears; but
wept--yes, she wept. "I was not prepared for this," she replied. "I did
not think that so short an acquaintance could have--Oh, I know not what
to say--nor how to act. My father's prejudices. You are a Catholic."

"And will die one, Miss Folliard."