Two days later, and Fastnet Rock looms up against the blue sky; the iron-bound Irish coast appears. At noon they will land in Queenstown.

"Come back to Erin, mavourneen, mavourneen," sings Charley's voice down the passage, early in the morning.

Charley can sing a little still. He is to lose Edith. Sir Victor
Catheron is to win and wear; but as she is not Lady Catheron yet, Mr.
Stuart postpones despair and suicide until she is.

She sprang from her bed with a cry of delight. Ireland! One, at least, of the lands of her dreams.

"Trixy!" she cries. "O Trixy, look out! 'The land of sweet Erin' at last!"

"I see it," Trixy said, rolling sleepily out of the under berth; "and I don't think much of it. A lot of wicked-looking rocks, and not a bit greener than at home. I thought the very sky was green over Ireland."

For the last two days Trixy's bitter trials had ended—her sea-sickness a dismal dream of the past. She was able, in ravishing toilet, to appear at the dinner-table, to pace the deck on the arm of Sir Victor. As one having the right, she calmly resumed her sway where she had left it off. Since that moonlight night of which she (Trixy) happily knew nothing, the bare civilities of life alone had passed between Miss Darrell and the baronet. Sir Victor might try, and did, but with, the serene superiority of right and power Miss Stuart countermanded every move. Hers she was determined he should be, and there was all the lost time to be made up besides. So she redoubled her attentions, aided and abetted by her pa—and how it came about the perplexed young Englishman never could tell, but somehow he was constantly at Miss Stuart's side and unable to get away. Edith saw it all and smiled to herself.

"To-day for me, to-morrow for thee," she hummed. "I have had my day; it is Trixy's turn now. She manoeuvres so well it would be a pity to interfere."

Charley was her cavalier those pleasant last days; both were disposed to take the goods their gods provided, and not fret for to-morrow. It would not last—life's fairy gifts never do, for to-day they would eat, drink, and be merry together, and forget the evil to come.

They landed, spent an hour in Queenstown, then the train whirled them away "to that beautiful city called Cork." There they remained two days, visited Blarney Castle, of course, and would have kissed the Blarney Stone but for the trouble of climbing up to it. Then off, and away, to Killarney.

And still Sir Victor was Trixy's captive—still Edith and Charley maintained their alliance. Lady Helena watched her nephew and the American heiress, and her fine woman's instinct told her he was in no danger there.

"If it were the other one, now," she thought, glancing at Edith's dark, bright face; "but it is quite clear how matters stand between her and her cousin. What a handsome pair they will make."

Another of the elders—Mr. James Stuart—watched the progress of matters, through very different spectacles. It was the one dream of his life, to marry his son and daughter to British rank.

"Of wealth, sir, they have enough," said the Wall Street banker, pulling up his collar pompously. "I will leave my children a cool million apiece. Their descent is equal to the best—to the best, sir—the royal rank of Scotland is in their veins. Fortune I don't look for—blood, sir—BLOOD, I do."

Over his daughter's progress after blood, he smiled complacently. Over his son's conduct he frowned.

"Mind what you're at, young man," he said, on the day they left
Cork, gruffly to Charley. "I have my eye on you. Ordinary attention to
Fred Darrell's daughter I don't mind, but no fooling. You understand
me, sir? No fooling. By George, sir, if you don't marry to please me,
I'll cut you off with a shilling!"

Mr. Stuart, junior, looked tranquilly up at Mr. Stuart, senior, with an expression of countenance the senior by no means understood.

"Don't lose your temper, governor," he answered calmly. "I won't marry
Fred Darrell's daughter, if that's what you mean by 'fooling.' She and
I settled that question two or three centuries ago."

At the village of Macroom, they quitted the comfortable railway carriage, and mounted the conveyance known in Ireland, as a public car, a thing like an overgrown jaunting-car, on which ten people can ride, sitting back to back, isolated by the pile of luggage between. There was but one tourist for the Lakes besides themselves, a large, military-looking young man, with muttonchop whiskers and an eye-glass, a knapsack and knickerbockers.

"Hammond, by Jove!" exclaimed Sir Victor. "Hammond, of the Scotch Grays. My dear fellow, delighted to see you. Captain Hammond, my friend, Mr. Stuart, of New York."

Captain Hammond put up his eye-glass and bowed. Charley lifted his hat, to this large military swell.

"I say, Sir Victor," the Captain of Scotch Grays began, "who'd have thought of seeing you here, you know? They said—aw—you had gone exploring Canada, or the United States, or some of those kind of places, you know. Who's your party?" sotto voce; "Americans—hey?"

"American friends, and my aunt, Lady Helena Powyss."

"Now, thin—look alive yer honors," cried the car-driver, and a scramble into seats instantly began. In his own mind, Sir Victor had determined his seat should be by Miss Darrell's side. But what is man's determination beside woman's resolve?

"Oh, p-please, Sir Victor," cries Miss Stuart, in a piteous little voice, "do help me up. It's so dreadfully high, and I know I shall fall off. And oh, please, do sit here, and point out the places as we go along—one enjoys places, so much more, when some one points them out, and you've been along here before."

What could Sir Victor do? More particularly as Lady Helena good-humoredly chimed in:

"Yes, Victor, come and point out the places. You shall sit bodkin, between Miss Beatrix and me. Your friend in the Tweed suit, can sit next, and you, my dear Mrs. Stuart—where will you sit?"

"As Charley and Edith will have all the other side to themselves," said meek Mrs. Stuart, "I guess I'll sit beside Edith."

"Ay, ay," chimed in her spouse, "and I'll mount with cabby. All serene, there, behind? Then away we go!"

Away they went, clattering over the road, with the whole tatterdemalion population of Macroom after, shouting for "ha' pennies."

"Rags enough to set up a paper-mill," suggested Charley, "and all the noses turn-ups! Edith, how do you like this arrangement?"

"I think Trixy's cleverer than I ever gave her credit for," laughed
Edith; "it's a pity so much diplomacy should be 'love's labor lost.'"

"Poor Trixy! She means well too. Honor thy father, that thy days may be long in the land. She's only trying to fulfil the command. And you think she has no chance?"

"I know it," Edith answers, with the calm serenity of conviction.

"Sir Victor, who's your friend with the solemn face and the funny knickerbockers?" whispers Trixy, under her white parasol.

"He's the Honorable Angus Hammond, second son of Lord Glengary, and captain of Scotch Grays," replies Sir Victor, and Miss Stuart opens her eyes, and looks with new-born reverence, at the big, speechless young warrior, who sits sucking the head of his umbrella, and who is an honorable and the son of a lord.

The day was delightful, the scenery exquisite, his companion vivacious in the extreme, Lady Helena in her most genial mood. But Sir Victor Catheron sat very silent and distrait all the way. Rallied by Miss Stuart on his gloom, he smiled faintly, and acknowledged he felt a trifle out of sorts. As he made the confession he paused abruptly—clear and sweet, rang out the girlish laugh of Edith Darrell.

"Our friends on the other side appear to be in excellent spirits at least," says Lady Helena, smiling in sympathy with that merry peal; "what a very charming girl Miss Darrell is."

Trixy shoots one swift, sidelong glance at the baronet's face, and answers demurely:

"Oh, it's an understood thing that Dithy and Charley are never really happy, except when together. I don't believe Charley would have taken the trouble to come at all, if Edith, at his solicitation, had not been one of the party."

"A very old affair I suppose?" asks her ladyship, still smiling.

"A very old affair, indeed," Trix answers gayly. "Edith will make a charming sister-in-law; don't you think so, Sir Victor?"

She looks up at him artlessly as she plunges her small dagger into a vital place. He tries to smile, and say something agreeable in return—the smile is a failure; the words a greater failure. After that, all Trixy's attention falls harmless. He sits moodily listening to the gay voices on the other side of the luggage, and finds out for sure and certain that he is dead in love with Miss Darrell.

They reach Glengariff as the twilight shadows fall—lovely Glengariff, where they are to dine and pass the night. At dinner, by some lucky chance, Edith is beside him, and Captain Hammond falls into the clutches of Trix. And Miss Darrell turns her graceful shoulder deliberately upon Charley, and bestows her smiles, and glances, and absolute attention upon his rival.

After dinner they go for a sail by moonlight to an island, where there are the remains of a martello tower. The elders, for whom "moonlight on the lake," long ago lost its witchery, and falling dews and night airs retain their terrors, stay at home and rest. Edith and Sir Victor, Trix and the Honorable Angus Hammond, saunter down arm in arm to the boat. Charley and the two Irish boatmen bring up the rear—Mr. Stuart smoking a consolatory cigar.

They all "pile in" together, and fill the little boat. The baronet follows up his luck, and keeps close to Edith. How beautiful she is with the soft silver light on her face. He sits and watches her, and thinks of the laureate's lines:

"A man had given all other bliss
And all his worldly worth for this,
To wast his whole heart in one kiss
Upon her perfect lips."

"Am I too late?" he thought; "does she love her cousin? Is it as his sister hints; or—"

His jealous, anxious eyes never left her. She saw it all. If she had ever doubted her power over him, she did not doubt to-night. She smiled, and never once looked toward Charley.

"No," he thought, with a sigh of relief; "she does not care for him in that way—let Miss Stuart think as she pleases. She likes him in a sisterly way—nothing more. I will wait until we reach England, and speak then. She, and she alone, shall be my wife."