on a very serious subject."
"A sarious subject! Is it concarnin' me?"
"It is."
"Go on! More throuble, I suppose?"
"I hope not, most sincerely. Mr. Joyce, I want to have your permission to marry your daughter!" If I had suddenly turned into a bird and flown away, I do not think I could have astonished him more. For a second or two he was speechless, and then said, in an unconscious sort of way:—
"Want to marry me daughter!"
"Yes, Mr. Joyce! I love her very dearly! She is a pearl amongst women; and if you will give your permission, I shall be the happiest man on earth. I can quite satisfy you as to my means. I am well to do; indeed, as men go, I am a rich man."
"Aye! sir, I don't doubt. I'm contint that you are what you say. But you never saw me daughter—except that dark night when you took me home."
"Oh yes, I have seen her several times, and spoken with her; but, indeed, I only wanted to see her once to love her!"
"Ye have seen her—and she never tould me! Come wid me!" He beckoned me to come with him, and strode at a rapid pace to his cottage, opened the door, and motioned me to go in. I entered the room—which was both kitchen and living room—to which he pointed. He followed.
As I entered, Norah, who was sewing, saw me and stood up. A rosy blush ran over her face; then she grew as white as snow as she saw the stern face of her father close behind me. I stepped forward, and took her hand; when I let it go, her arm fell by her side.
"Daughter!"—Joyce spoke very sternly, but not unkindly. " Do you know this gentleman?"
"Yes, father!"
"He tells me that you and he have met several times. Is it thrue?"
"Yes, father; but—"
"Ye never tould me! How was that?"
"It was by accident we met."
"Always be accident?" Here I spoke:—
"Always by accident—on her part." He interrupted me:—
"Yer pardon, young gentleman! I wish me daughter to answer me! Shpeak, Norah!"
"Always, father!—except once, and then I came to give a message—yes! it was a message, although from myself."
"What missage?"
"Oh father! don't make me speak! We are not alone! Let me tell yon, alone! I am only a girl—and it is hard to speak."
His voice had a tear in it, for all its sternness, as he answered:—
"It is on a subject that this gentleman has spoke to me about—as mayhap he has spoke to you."
"Oh father!"—she took his hand, which he did not withdraw, and, bending over, kissed it and hugged it to her breast. " Oh father! what have I done that you should seem to mistrust me? You have always trusted me; trust me now, and don't make me speak till we are alone!"
I could not be silent any longer. My blood began to boil, that she I loved should be so distressed—whatsoever the cause, and at the hands of whomsoever, even her father.
"Mr. Joyce, you must let me speak! You would speak yourself to save pain to a woman you loved." He turned to tell me to be silent, but suddenly stopped; I went on:—" Norah," he winced as I spoke her name, " is entirely blameless. I met her quite by chance at the top of Knocknacar when I went to see the view. I did not know who she was—I had not the faintest suspicion; but from that moment I loved her. I went next day, and waited all day in the chance of seeing her; I did see her, but again came away in ignorance even of her name. I sought her again, day after day, day after day, but could get no word of her; for I did not know who she was, or where she came from. Then, by chance, and after many weary days, again I saw her in the Cliff Fields below, three days ago. I could no longer be silent, but told her that I loved her, and asked her to be my wife. She asked a while to think, and left me, promising to give me an answer on the next evening. I came again; and I got my answer." Here Norah, who was sobbing, with her face turned away, looked round, and said:—
"Hush! hush! You must not let father know. All the harm will be done!" Her father answered in a low voice:—
"All that could be done is done already, daughter. Ye never tould me!"
"Sir! Norah is worthy of all esteem. Her answer to me was that she could not leave her father, who was all alone in the world!" Norah turned away again, but her father's arm went round her shoulder. " She told me I must think no more of her; but, sir, you and I, who are men, must not let a woman, who is dear to us both make such a sacrifice." Joyce's face was somewhat bitter as he answered me:—
"Ye think pretty well of yerself, young sir, whin ye consider it a sacrifice for me daughter to shtay wid the father, who loves her, and who she loves. There was never a shadda on her life till ye came! '* This was hard to hear, but harder to answer, and I stammered as I replied:—
"I hope I am man enough to do what is best for her, even if it were to break my heart. But she must marry some time; it is the lot of the young and beautiful!" Joyce paused a while, and his look grew very tender as he made answer softly:—
"Aye! thrue! thrue! the young birds lave the nist in due sayson—that's only natural." This seemed sufficient concession for the present; but Andy's warning rose before me, and I spoke:—
"Mr. Joyce, God knows! I don't want to add one drop of bitterness to either of your lives! only tell me that I may have hope, and I am content to wait and to try to win your esteem and Norah's love."
The father drew his daughter closer to him, and with his other hand stroked her hair, and said, whilst his eyes filled with tears:—
"Ye didn't wait for me esteem to win her love!" Norah threw herself into his arms and hid her face on his breast. He went on:—
"We can't undo what is done. If Norah loves ye— and it seems to me that she does—do I shpeak thrue, daughter?" The girl raised her face bravely, and looked in her father's eyes:—
"Yes! father." A thrill of wild delight rushed through me. As she dropped her head again, I could see that her neck had
"The colour of the budding rose's crest."
"Well! well!" Joyce went on, " Ye are both young yit. God knows what may happen in a year! Lave the girl free a bit to choose. She has not met many gentlemen in her time; and she may desave herself. Me darlin'! whativer is for your good shall be done, plase God!"
"And am I to have her in time?" The instant I had spoken I felt that I had made a mistake; the man's face grew hard as he turned to me:—
"I think for me daughter, sir, not for you! As it is, her happiness seems to be mixed up with yours—lucky for ye. I suppose ye must meet now and thin; but ye must both promise me that ye'll not meet widout me lave, or, at laste, me knowin' it. We 're not gentlefolk, sir, and we don't undherstand their ways. If ye were of Norah's and me own kind, I mightn't have to say the same; but ye're not."
Things were now so definite that I determined to make one more effort to fix a time when my happiness might be certain, so I asked:—
"Then if all be well, and you agree—as please God you shall when you know me better—when may I claim her?"
When he was face to face with a definite answer Joyce again grew stern. He looked down at his daughter and then up at me, and said, stroking her hair:—
"Whin the threasure of Knockcalltecrore is found, thin ye may claim her if ye will, an' I'll freely let her go!" As he spoke, there came before my mind the strong idea that we were all in the power of the Hill—that it held us; however, as lightly as I could I spoke:—
"Then I would claim her now!"
"What do ye mane?"—this was said half anxiously, half fiercely.
"The treasure of Knockcalltecrore is here; you hold her in your arms!" He bent over