burnishing some distant heights; and while we paused, admiring the glow and changing hues of the landscape, the report of a gun startled me. A shot had been fired close to where we stood.
I saw that Sir Denis was still, at least, able to keep his saddle; but some confusion of brain overpowered me; and though I heard him exclaim distinctly “Good God, Stapleton!”
I had not strength to utter a word, my impression being that he had received a wound, and might fall immediately. Then I grew move bewildered, becoming at last incapable of hearing or seeing or understanding.
CHAPTER VIII. CONCLUSION.
The next thing that I became conscious of was some one holding my hand in a light clasp, and tears falling upon it, while stilled sobs fell upon my confused hearing.
“How is Sir Denis?” I endeavoured to utter faintly, dreading to hear the answer.
“Quite well; but you must not speak,” whispered a soft musical voice that thrilled me.
“But something peculiar has occurred,” I continued, trying to shake off the confusion of brain that was overpowering my senses. “I have not been dreaming, surely? Where am I? Who is standing near me?”
“You have been wounded, Captain Stapleton, but not dangerously,” replied the same sweet voice. “You are now at Knockgriffin. The surgeon has dressed your arm, and I have promised to take care of you, and prevent your talking too much.”
“Thank God it is nothing more!” I exclaimed gratefully, while rapidly returning consciousness revealed to me clearly that I was lying on a sofa in a sitting-room of Knockgriffin House, and that Miss Barnett herself was watching over me. The pain of my arm, the feeling of faintness still oppressing me were completely forgotten as I closed my eyes in a delirium of happiness impossible to describe. It would have been easy for me to have died at that moment with one who was to me as a guardian angel standing thus near.
By degrees I comprehended the whole state of the case. I had been shot in mistake for Sir Denis Barnett. At first it was feared that my unfortunate arm would have been obliged to be amputated; but things turned out better than was expected. Tho doctors suffered the limb to hold its ground, and I was soon on the way to recovery. I had many days and nights of feverish bodily suffering; yet much mental consolation. I knew that I was an object of tender care to the being who was to me the dearest of all others upon earth. Sir Denis overpowered me with kindness also; and for the weeks that I was an invalid at Knockgriffin I felt as happy as a king; alas! far happier than many kings, I trow!
My regiment, meanwhile, had left Templemore and gone to Limerick. Fate had decreed that I was to remain for some time longer in Tipperary; and though she certainly took somewhat rough measures to fulfil my destiny, I thanked her nevertheless devoutly. In a short time I was an interesting-looking individual—going about with an arm in a sling, with a languid appearance, pale complexion, and sentimental eyes—a hero in the estimation of everybody, including, probably, the person who had shot me, and adored by the servants, who were nearly all attached to Sir Denis. Sir Percy Stedmole quitted Knockgriffin on “urgent business” immediately after my mishap, and Nugent remained there only long enough to ascertain that I was not mortally wounded. Barnett and his sister put off going to Harrowgate for a month, and during the time I remained with them both devoted themselves entirely to me. The Cappamoyne lands were at length cleared of the objectionable tenantry without further attempt at opposition; but Ryan, the sullen young man who seemed so annoyed at the idea of quitting his ancestral home, went to America almost immediately, taking with him as his bride the beautiful Mary Killery, and thus relieving Barnett probably of a dangerous tenant.
In those happy days of convalescence I perceived that Miss Barnett was quite altered from what she had seemed during my first days at Knockgriffin. Her manner was altogether different,—no longer cold, calm, and stately, but full of tenderness and pity. Occasionally she appeared subdued, tremulous, and easily agitated. I was gradually growing less and less afraid of her. In proportion as she betrayed signs of weakness, so did I become more courageous, and at length ventured to breathe my tale of love. I owed her gratitude for her kindness during my illness. What wonder, then, that this gratitude should take the deeper diameter of love? I was not ashamed of declaring my fervent attachment to her now. Even should she reject my suit, I felt that there could be no madness in speaking openly of my love. I did not presume to address her brother upon this point before alluding to it to herself. Louisa Barnett was just the sort of proud-spirited girl who would resent such impertinence on the part of a lover. Very humbly, and without much hope of success, I told her one evening, as we walked before the house among many-hued flower-plots, that from henceforth she must be all in all to me: that