her tears. He was generous, and she at any rate would not be less
so. No; at that moment, with her scanty seventeen years of
experience, with her ignorance of all that the world had in it of
grand and great, of high and rich, she did care nothing for rank.
That Owen Fitzgerald was a gentleman of good lineage, fit to mate
with a lady, that she did know; for her mother, who was a proud
woman, delighted to have him in her presence. Beyond this she cared
for none of the conventionalities of life. Rank! If she waited for
rank, where was she to look for friends who would love her? Earls
and countesses, barons and their baronesses, were scarce there where
fate had placed her, under the shadow of the bleak mountains of
Muskerry. Her want, her undefined want, was that some one should
love her. Of all men and women whom she had hitherto known, this
Owen Fitzgerald was the brightest, the kindest, the gentlest in his
manner, the most pleasant to look on. And now he was there at her
feet, swearing that he loved her;--and then drawing back as it were
in dread of her rank. What did she care for rank?

"Clara, Clara, my Clara! Can you learn to love me?"

She had made her one little effort at speaking when she attempted to
repudiate the pedestal on which he affected to place her; but after
that she could for a while say no more. But she still sobbed, and
still kept her eyes fixed upon the ground.

"Clara, say one word to me. Say that you do not hate me." But just
at that moment she had not one word to say.

"If you will bid me do so, I will leave this country altogether. I
will go away, and I shall not much care whither. I can only stay now