Kate was awoke from a deep sleep by the noise of the boat coming to anchor. She started up, and looked around her, unable for several seconds to recal where she was. Behind the little land-locked bay the tall mountains rose, wild and fanciful, on every side; the dark sky studded with stars above, and the still darker sea beneath, still and waveless; and then the shore, where lights moved rapidly hither and thither; making up a picture strangely interesting to one to whom that lone rock was to be a home, that dreary spot in the wild ocean her whole world.

There were a great many people on the shore awaiting her, partly out of curiosity, in part out of respect, and Molly Ryan had come down to say that his honour was not well enough to meet her, but he hoped in the morning he would be able. “You’re to be the same as himself here,” he says; “and every word you say is to be minded as if it was his own.”

“I almost think I remember you; your face, and your voice too, seem to me as though I knew them before.”

“So you may, Miss. You saw me here at the mistress’s wake, but don’t let on to the master, for he doesn’t like that any of us should think you was ever here afore. This is the path here, Miss; it’s a rough bit for your tender feet.”

“Have we much farther to go, Molly? I am rather tired to-day.”

“No, Miss; a few minutes more will bring us to the Abbey; but sure we’d send for a chair and carry you——”

“No, no; on no account. It is only to-night I feel fatigued. My uncle’s illness is nothing serious, I hope?”

“‘Tis more grief than sickness, Miss. It’s sorrow is killin’ him. Any one that saw him last year wouldn’t know him now; his hair is white as snow, and his voice is weak as a child’s. Here we are now—here’s the gate. It isn’t much of a garden, nobody minds it; and yonder, where you see the light, that’s his honour’s room, beside the big tower there, and you are to have the two rooms that my mistress lived in.” And, still speaking, she led the way through a low arched passage into a small clean-looking chamber, within which lay another with a neatly-arranged bed, and a few attempts at comfortable furniture. “We did our best, Miss, Sam and myself,” said Molly; “but we hadn’t much time, for we only knew you was coming on Tuesday night.”

“It is all yery nice and clean, Molly. Your name is Molly, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Miss,” said she, curtseying, and deeply gratified.

“I want nothing better!” said Kate, as she sat down on the bed and took off her bonnet.

“If you don’t need me now, Miss, I’ll go and bring you your tea; it’s all ready in the kitchen.”

“Very well, Molly; leave it for me in the outer room, and I’ll take it when I am inclined.”

Molly saw that she desired to be alone, and withdrew without a word; and Kate, now free of all restraint, buried her face in the pillow and wept bitterly. Never, till the very spot was before her—till the dark shadows of the rugged rocks crossed her path, and the wild solitude of the dreary island appealed to her, by the poor appearance of the people, their savage looks, and their destitution—never till then had she fully realised to her mind all the force of the step she had taken. “What have I done! What have I done!” sobbed she, hysterically, over and over. “Why have I left all that makes life an ecstasy to come and drag out an existence of misery and gloom! Is this the fruit of all my ambition? Is this the prize for which I have left myself, without one affection or one sentiment, sacrificing all to that station I had set before me as a goal? I’ll not bear it. I’ll not endure it. Time enough to come here when my hopes are bankrupt, and my fortune shipwrecked. I have youth—and, better, I have beauty. Shall I stay here till a blight has fallen on both? Why, the very misery I came from as a child was less dreary and desolate than this! There was at least companionship there! There was sympathy, for there was fellow-suffering. But here! what is there here, but a tomb in which life is to waste out, and the creature feel himself the corpse before he dies?” She started up and looked around her, turning her eyes from one object to the other in the room. “And it is for this splendour, for all this costly magnificence, I am to surrender the love of those humble people, who, after all, loved me for myself! It was of me they thought, for me they prayed, for my success they implored the saints; and it is for this”—and she gazed contemptuously on the lowly decorations of the chamber—“I am to give them up for ever, and refuse even to see them! The proud old Sir Within never proposed so hard a bargain! He did not dare to tell me I should deny my own. To be sure,” cried she, with a scornful laugh, “I was forgetting a material part of the price. I am a Luttrell—Kate Lnttrell of Arran—and I shall be one day, perhaps, mistress of this grand ancestral seat, the Abbey of St. Finbar! Would that I could share the grandeur with them at once, and lie down there in that old aisle as dreamless as my noble kinsfolk!”

In alternate bursts of sorrow oyer the past, and scornful ridicule of the present, she passed the greater part of the night; and at last, exhausted and weary with the conflict, she leaned her head on the side of her bed, and, kneeling as she was, fell off to sleep. When she awoke, it was bright day, the sea-breeze playing softly through a honeysuckle that covered the open window, filled the room with a pleasant perfume, and cooled her heated brow. She looked out on the scarcely ruffled bay, and saw the fishing-boats standing out to sea, while on the shore all were busy launching or stowing away tackle; the very children aiding where they could, carrying down baskets, or such small gear as their strength could master. It was life, and movement, and cheerfulness too—for so the voices sounded in the thin morning air—not a tone of complaint, not one utterance that indicated discontent, and the very cheer which accompanied the sliding craft as she rushed down to the sea seemed to come from hearts that were above repining. The scene was better to her than all her self-arguings. There they were, the very class she sprang from; the men and women like her own nearest kindred; the very children recalling the days when she played barefooted on the beach, and chased the retiring waves back into the sea. They were there, toiling ever on, no hope of any day of better fortune, no thought of any other rest than the last long sleep of all, and why should she complain? That late life of luxury and splendour was not without its drawbacks. The incessant watchfulness it exacted, lest in some unguarded moment she should forget the part she was playing—and part it was—the ever-present need of that insidious flattery by which she maintained her influence over Sir Within, and, above all, the dread of her humble origin being discovered, and becoming the table-talk of the servants’-hall. These were a heavy price to pay for a life of luxurious indulgence.

“Here, at least,” cried she, “I shall be real. I am the niece and the adopted daughter of the lord of the soil; none can gainsay or deny me; a Luttrell of Arran, I can assert myself against the world; poverty is only an infliction when side by side with affluence; we are the great and the rich here! Let me only forget the past, and this life can be enjoyable enough. I used to fancy, long ago, as I walked the garden alone at Dinasllyn, that no condition of life would ever find me unprepared to meet. Here is a case to prove my theory, and now to be an Arran islander.”

As she said, she began to arrange her room, and place the different articles in it more to her own taste. Her care was to make her little chamber as comfortable as she could. She was rather an adept in this sort of achievement—at least, she thought she could impart to a room a character distinctly her own, giving it its “cachet” of homeliness, or comfort, or elegance, or simplicity, as she wished it. The noise of her preparations brought Molly to her aid, and she despatched the amazed countrywoman to bring her an armful of the purple heath that covered the mountain near, and as many wild flowers as she could find.

“To-morrow, Molly,” said she, “I will go in search of them myself, but to-day I must put things to rights here. Now, Molly,” said she, as they both were busied in filling two large jugs with the best flowers they could find, “remember that I’m an old maid.”

“Lawk, Miss, indeed you arn’t!”

“Well, never mind, I mean to be just as particular, just as severe as one; and remember, that wherever I put a table, or a chest of drawers, or even a cup with a flower in it, you must never displace it. No matter how careless I may seem, leave everything here as you find it.”

“That’s the master’s own way, Miss; his honour would go mad if I touched a book he was readin’.”

It was a very pleasant flattery that the poor woman thus unconsciously insinuated, nor could anything have been more in time, for Kate was longing to identify herself with the Luttrells, to be one of them in their ways, and their very prejudices.

Scarcely had Molly left the room than a light tap came to the door, and a weak voice asked:

“May I come in?”

Kate hastened to open it, but she was anticipated, and her uncle slowly entered, and stood before her.

“My dear, dear uncle,” cried she, taking his hand, and pressing it to her lips.

He pressed her in his arms, and kissed her forehead twice, and then, with a hand on either shoulder, held her for a moment at arms’ length, while he looked at her. Hers was not a nature to flinch under such a scrutiny, and yet she blushed at last under the steadiness of his gaze.

“Let us sit down,” said he, at length; and he handed her to a seat with much courtesy. “Had I seen you, Miss Luttrell——”

“Oh, Sir, say Kate—call me Kate,” cried she, eagerly.

“Had I seen you before, Kate,” continued he—and there was a touch of feeling as he spoke the name—“I do not think I could have dared to ask you to come here!”

“Oh, dear uncle! have I so disappointed you?”

“You have amazed me, Kate. I was not prepared to see you as you are. I speak not of your beauty, my child; I was prepared for that. It is your air, your bearing, that look, that reminds me of long, long ago. It is years since I saw a lady, my dear Kate, and the sight of you has brought up memories I had believed were dead and buried.”

“Then I do not displease you, uncle?”

“I am angry with myself, child. I should never have brought you to this barbarism.”

“You have given me a home, Sir,” said she, fondly; but he only sighed, and she went on: “A home and a name!”

“A name! Yes,” said he, proudly, “a name that well befits you, but a home—how unworthy of you! What ignorance in me not to know that you would be like this!” And again he gazed at her with intense admiration. “But see, my child, to what this life of grovelling monotony conduces. Because I had not seen you and heard your voice, I could not picture to my poor besotted mind that, besides beauty, you should have that gracefulness the world deems higher than even beauty. Nay, Kate, I am no flatterer; and, moreover, I will not speak of this again.”

“I will try to make you satisfied that you did well to send for me, Sir,” said she, meekly; and her heart felt almost bursting with delight at the words of praise she had just heard.

“How did you induce them to part with you?” asked he, calmly.

“I gave no choice in the matter, Sir. I showed your letter to Sir Within Wardle, and he would not hear of my leaving. I tried to discuss the matter, and he only grew impatient. I hinted at what your letter had vaguely insinuated—a certain awkwardness in my position—and this made him downright angry. We parted, and I went to my room. Once alone, I took counsel with myself. The result was, that I wrote that letter which you received, and I came away the same morning I wrote it.”

“Alone?”

“Yes, Sir, alone.”

“And without a leave-taking?”

“Even so, Sir. It was the only way in which I could have come, and I had made up my mind to it.”.

“Here was something of the Luttrell there!” said he, turning his eyes full upon her features, which now had caught an expression of calm and resolute meaning. “You will become the name, Kate!”

“It shall be my endeavour, Sir.”

“And yet,” added he, after a pause, “you were very happy there. Tell me the sort of life you used to lead.”

“One day will serve for all, uncle; they were exactly alike. My mornings were all my own. If my masters came, I studied, or I dismissed them as I pleased; if I felt indisposed to read, I sung; if I did not like music, I drew; if I did not care for drawing landscape, I caricatured my master, and made a doggrel poem on his indignation. In a word, I trifled over the day till luncheon. After that I rode in the woods, alone if I could, sometimes with Sir Within; often I had time to do both. Then came dressing—a long affair—for I was expected to be fine enough for company each day, though we saw no one. After that, most wearisome of all the day, came dinner—two hours and a half—-services of which we never ate; wines we did not care to drink, but all repeated regularly; a solemn mock banquet, my guardian—so I called him—loved immensely, and would have prolonged, if he but knew how, till midnight. Evening brought our one guest, a French AbbÉ, with whom I sung or played chess till I could engage Sir Within and himself in a discussion about Mirabeau or St. Just, when I would slip away and be free. Then, if the night were moonlit, I would drive out in the Park, or have a row on the Lake; if dark, I would have the conservatory lighted, set the fountains a playing, and drive the gardener distracted by ‘awakening’ all his drowsy plants. In a word, I could do what I pleased, and I pleased to do whatever struck me at the moment. I ordered all that I liked from Town—books, dress, objects of art, prints—and was just as weary of them all before I saw them as after they had palled upon me. It was a life of intense indulgence, and I’m not sure, if one could but fight off occasional ennui, that it wasn’t the happiest thing could be made of existence, for it was very dreamy withal, very full of innumerable futures, all rose-coloured, all beautiful.”

“And what are you to make of this?” asked Luttrell, almost sternly, as he moved his arm around to indicate the new realm about her. “Here there is no luxury, no wealth, none of the refinement that comes of wealth, not one of the resources that fill the time of cultivated leisure; all is hardship, privation, self-denial. Go abroad, too, beyond the walls of this poor old ruin, and it will be to witness misery and destitution greater still.”

“I am going to try if I shall not like the real conflict better than the mock combat,” said she, calmly.

“What a change will be your life here, my poor child—what a change! Let it not, however, be worse than it need be. So far as this poor place will permit, be your own mistress—live in your own fashion—keep your own hours—come to me only when you like, never from any sense of duty. I am too inured to solitude to want companionship, though I can be grateful when it is offered me. I have a few books—some of them may interest you; my pursuits, too—what once were my pursuits!” said he, with a sigh, “might amuse you. At all events,” added he, rising, “try—try if you can bear it; it need not be your prison if you cannot!”

He again kissed her forehead, and, motioning a good-by with his hand, moved slowly away.

“Perhaps I shall acquit myself better than he thinks,” said she to herself. “Perhaps—who knows if I may not find some place or thing to interest me here? It is very grand ‘savagery,’ and if one wanted to test their powers of defying the world in every shape, this is the spot. What is this you have brought me to eat, Molly?”

“It’s a bit of fried skate, Miss, and I’m sorry it’s no better, but the potatoes is beautiful.”

“Then let me have them, and some milk. No milk—is that so?”

“There’s only one cow, Miss, on the island, and she’s only milked in the evening; but St. Finbar’s Well is the finest water ever was tasted.”

“To your good health, then, and St. Finbar’s!” said she, lifting a goblet to her lips. “You are right, Molly; it is ice-cold and delicious!” And now, as she began her meal, she went on inquiring which of the men about the place would be most likely as a gardener, what things could be got to grow, on which side came the worst winds, and where any shelter could be found. “Perhaps I shall have to take to fishing, Molly,” said she, laughing, “for something I must do.”

“You could make the nets, anyhow, Miss,” said Molly, in admiration of the white and graceful hands, and thinking what ought to be their most congenial labour.

“I can row a boat well, Molly,” said Kate, proudly.

“Whatever you’d do, you’d do well, God bless you!” cried the other; for in that hearty delight in beauty, so natural to the Irish peasant nature, she imagined her to be perfection, and the honest creature turned, ere she left the room, to give her a look of admiration little short of rapture.