A WINSOME MAID.

New Zealand Tablet, Volume XXIX, Issue 6, 7 February 1901, Page 23

A WINSOME MAID.

(Conrlu.non.') But it was hard work. Now she had the wind in her tee<h. and she made but little headway. Still she struggled bravely on, and was gradually approaching the landing-stage when a big wave struck the side of the boat and she aiaKgeied aud almost fell from h«r Heat. In an instant she recovered herself and sat up breathless and alarmed. Then, suddenly, a cry esuapeJ her trembling lips. One of the oars had slipped from her grasp, and the boat was soon being whirled away before the storm, completely beyond her control. Upon the opposite bank, gazing out across the lake, stodd a tall broad-shouldered young man, his hands behind his back, his hat well down over his eyes. 4 I have not courage to present or introduce myself,' he murmured, his eyes fixed upon the old house, just visible through the trees. ' I'd like to make their acquaintance, but would rather they did not know any more than ' He uttered a cry of horror. ' A boat I My God ! She will be lost ! ' Then, running forward with the utmost speed, be s-prang down upon a grassy ledge, not a foot from the water, and facing the girl as she was carried helplessly along, he shouted at the top of his voice : ' A rope — throw it to me — if you can ' Sheila heard and comprehended, but Ithe pitiless wind bore her madly on. Still, her presence of mind did not forsake her, and, groping round the bottom of the boat, she soon found what he had asked for. ' It's useless, I fear,' Bhe murmured. 'He could never overtake me now. Death stares me in the face. My God, mercy 1 Mary, help me ! Into Thy hands, O Lord, I commend my spirit ! ' And she closed her eyes with a sigh. But as she breathed her prayer another squall swept up the lake from the opposite direction, and the boat was tossed back, then landed upon a sand-bank about twenty yards from the shore. Quiok ! ' cried the young man. ' Another instant and you may be whirled off again. Fasten the rope to the seat and throw it to me.' White and resolute, Sheila stood up and following his instructions implicitly, sent the rope flying through the air. Very dexterously he caught it and without much trouble hauled the boat up to the bank, then, bending, caught her hand and assisted her on to the grass. 4 Thank you,' she said, looking at him, her beautiful clear eyes full of de"*p gratitude. ' You have saved my life.' 4 With God's help, yes,' he answered. ■ You were certainly in a bad way. It was rash to go out boating by yourself in such uncertain weather.' 4 Yes, but it seemed quite settled when I left home. And I did not mean to go far.' He smiled. ' One's intentions count for little against such a wind.' 4 Very little,' she said quietly. ' Thank you fcr your timely aid —so much.' 4 Not at all.' Her manner had grown colder, more dignified, and he glanced at her uneasily. Did she mean to suggest that he should leave her. 4 1 don't like to go till I see you safely home,' he said. 'My name is George Lyons. I am a guest of the parish priest, Fath( r Tom Ryan. Of course you know him .' ' She smiled as she looked up at him, and he felt that he had never seen such a beautiful girl. • Everyone round here knows and loves Father Tom,' she replied. ' I have known him all my life. My name is Sheila Burke. I live with my mother at Leamount. He may have mentioned un to you.' 4 Indeed he has, frequently. May I escort you home and pay my respects to Mrs. Burke /' 4 Certainly,' she cried gaily. ' I feel that we have been introduced, and my mother will long to thank and bless you when she hears what you have done for me. See, there is Leamount winning through the trees. Across the lake it is very near , but we must walk round some milts to it now.' Then, leaving the boat high and dry upon the bank, the young people struck out together through the fields-. Mrs. Burke, who had spent an anxious morning, receipt d her daughter with open arms, and thanked and welcomed George Lyons most warmly. 4 Father Tom hns been here and he was telling me about j ou, " she cried, wringing his hand. 'He says you love Ireland and the Irish, so I waa prepared to like you when you came. Hut your goodness to my Sheila makes you doubly welcome, and I feel I can never thank you enough. Were you ever in Ireland before ' ' ' Never. All my life has been spent in Australia. But my parents were Irish, and taught me to kuow and love the old country.' 1 I'm glad of that.' 4lf you've live in Australia,' began Sheila. Then she stopped short with a quick blush. 1 Yes,' he replied, smiling. 4 I'm ready to answer any questions.' 4 Oh, I was goin* to ask rather a silly one — if, as you came from Australia, you had ever met my uncle, Mr. Myles Burke 1 But then Australia ib an immense country. And so '

llt is immense,' he answered gravely. ' But I have met your uncle, Mr. Burke.' ' Oh 1 And his adopted son ? ' A curious expression flitted across the young man's f aoe, and he looked quickly away as he said : 1 And his adopted son.' ' la he nice ? ' ' I 'He reddened slightly. ' I hardly know. At leaßt— l'd rather not say.' ' That " — Sheila's face clouded — • does not speak well for him, I'm afraid. And I'm sorry, for. afl you perhaps know, when my uncle dies he succeeds to this place.' ' Yea, I knev. I 'He he a i*"fltf>d But pray do not allow me to prejudice you against him. Some people, I believe, like him vci) — <il li^at, fairly well.' Sheila laughed. ' You are not enthusiastic. And after all we need not care whether he is nice or not. My uncle seems to love him.' ' Yes, warmly, that he does And he is devoted heart and soul to him.' ' That is in his favor.' ' Perhaps. But he would be a brute if he did not love the man who has been father, benefactor, friend— everything to him.' ' You speak warmly,' said Mrs. Burke. ' And I must cay I agree with you.' ' I speak as J feel," he said, rising from his seat. ' And now I must hurry away. I have promised to be back to lunch with Father Tom. May I come over again to-morrow and ccc something of the place .7'. 7 ' ' Certainly. You'll be be welcome. Sheila will show you round.' ' With pleasure,' the girl answered. ' But come early. The afternoon is to be devoted to the school children, to whom my aunt, Mrs. Walker, is standing a tea. in honor of St. Patrick's Day. We are to have rompß and games in the park and a grand spread in the coach-house afterwards.' ' How delightful ! May I come up and help ? ' 'Certainly, if you will. Father Tom is, of course coming.' ' (rood. Then I shall be sure to accompany him. But I'll come also in the morning, if I may.' ' You will be most welcome.' 'Thank you. Good-by.' And taking up his hat he went away. * • * Early next morning George Lyons strolled up the long winding avenue that led to Leamount. 'I am not sure that lam right — and yet hove easy I've drifted into it,' he said, a troubled look in his handsome eyes. ' And it waa his wish. From the moment I made the acquaintance of Father Ryan in Switzerland that summer and he invited me to pay him a visit, he never rested till I accepted it. He wished us to meet ; to know each other ; hoped She's very beautiful, very charming — fit to be a queen ; while I She must surely have a high ideal ! She is so good, so noble. How dare I venture to My God ! he'll be a lucky man who wins her love — lucky indeed.' And sighing heavily, he Ptood still for a moment, gazing up through the leafless trees at the clear, blue sky ; then with a Bmile strode briskly on. At t He entrance to the garden he found Sheila talking to one of the men. She was simply attired in a dark-blue serge skirt and coat, a pink flannel b'ouee, and a plain straw hat. Yet as the eun fell upon her golden brown hair and slim, lithe figure she made, thought Lyons, one of the most beautiful pictures he bad c\er seen. ' She is far beyond anything I ever dreamed of or expected,' he murmured. Neither Father Tom nor her photograph spoke half the truth.' 'Good mornin"-. Mr. Lyons,' cried Sheila, stepping forward to meet him, her eyea -shining with health and happiness, her sweet face wreathed in smiles. 'I have been giving directions about our teaparty. Isn't it, delightful that the day is so fine ? ' ' Yes. Everything will go off better.' ' I should think so. Poor mites ! A wet afternoon would spoil all. But the weather has been steadily improving since yesterday. Even the lake would be safe now.' ' Yes,' eagerly. ' Shall we go for a row ? ' ' No, thanks ; not at present. I must play the part of showwoman, or my mother would not be pleased. This is the garden.' Ami she led the way into a big, high-walled garden, where vegetables und all kinds of old-fashioned flowers grew together in sweet prohi-ion. ' Isn tit nice ? ' ' IVriectly b autiful,' ho murmured, stealing surreptitious glances at the girl's rounded cheek and delicately regular profile. ' But what an awful brutn your uncle's heir will feel if you and Mr. Burke insist on leavirxg your home on his account ! ' Sheila turned and looked at him with a faint smile. 'It will not be a case of insisting. We shall be expected to go.' ' Oh, no ; I'm sure he would never wish or expect you to do such a thing.' ' He's a stranger, and will not care.' ' I am convinced he'll care — a great deal. Couldn't it be arranged that you and Mrs. Burke could stay and ' 1 That is a question 1 do not think we need discuss,' said the girl with cold dignity. ' Licu&e me if 1 presumed too far." Lyons reddened to the roots of his hair. ' But I didn't mean that I — only ' ' Y<m meant kindly, I am sure ; so pray say no more,' Sheila said gently. ' But my mother and I are resigned to what we know is right and natural. My uncle has been most generous in allowing us to remain on here ; but when he dies we shall go willingly to a little cottage near.

' Let us pray that Mr. Burke may live for many long years, and then, perhaps, it will not matter so much — in fact, not at all— to you.' ' I cannot see what difference the years could make to me.' ' You may— excuse me saying so — but you may marry' ' That,' she answered quietly, and stooping to gather some golden daffodils as he spoke, ' is not probable.' ' Are you so hard to please, then ! ' She laughed lightly. 'Oh, no. But this is not what one would call a marrying country. Men are few and far between about here, Mr. Lyons ; and my mother and I do not mix much in the gay world ' £>v i. iiectfu Hum irtouei xutn. iuu int: luua. u[ iLv oounuy ? ' ' Yes. It suits my mother.' ' You aie a unvoted daughter, Minn Burke ' ' I love my mother.' she said simply, then passed on through the garden and out into the stable-yard. 'These stalls were once filled with horses,' she said, a little sadly. ' This small pony represents the whole of our stud now.' 'A sturdy fellow,' he said, an expression half shame, half annoyance, creeping over his face, ' but not worthy to be the only occupant of these stables. Your uncle and — and his heir neglect you, Miss Burke.' 1 You must not say that,' she replied quickly. * Uncle has been away for years and years, and forgets the place. His heir is a stranger. By-the-bye, what is his name ? It may seem odd to you, but we never heard it.' ' It does not seem odd to me, because I knew before I came here that you had never heard it. His name is the same as mme — George Lyons.' ' Indeed ! Is he a relative ? ' ' Yes. A very near relative.' ' Come ; that's pleasant news,' cried Sheila gaily. ' I don't feel as if he were altogether a stranger now.' • Thank you,' he said, well pleased at the gracefully-implied compliment. 'I am much obliged.' The tea-party that afternoon was an immense success, and the fun and merriment were delightful to behold.

This happy intercourse went on for some months, and then suddenly George Lyons was called away. ' The illness of one dear to me obliges me to go,' he wrote to Mrs. Burke. ' But I trust you and Miss Sheila will not forget me, but think of me kindly and often during my absence,' ' That we are sure to do,' sighed Mrs. Burke, 'for we shall miss him terribly. Sha'n't we. dear ? ' ' Terribly,' Sheila answered. And turning away she hurried out of the room. In the hall Bhe paused, and a sob escaped her. ' Gone ? Is it possible ? Without a word. And last night I fancied But,' flushing to the roots of her hair, 'I was mistaken — horribly, bitterly mistaken.' The days and weeks that followed were brilliantly fine and warm. Such a summer had rarely been known : but Sheila was absorbed and preoccupied. She took no heed of the flowers ; scarcely noticed the golden plums or dainty apricots. Her heart was sad, her spirits depressed, and when away from her mother she was frequently in tears. Still she did not neglect her work among the poor, nor her visits to the church. ' Miss Sheila will surely be a nun,' the people would say when they saw her kneeling wrapt in prayer before the Blessed Sacrament. ♦ God bless us, but she'll be the cruel loss to us entirely. But sure His holy will be done. However, pious as Sheila was, the convent was not what God intended for her, and so the people learned to their joy before very long. When George Lyons had been gone some five or six months, Mrs, Burke one day received a telegram from London announcing the death of her brother-in-law. ' Poor fellow ! God be merciful to him. May he rest in peace ! ' she cried. " But, oh, Sheila, his death will make a great difference to us.' 1 Great, indeed.' Sheila was very pale. 'We must leave this at once, mother. From what I have heard this George Lyons is not too nice.' ' Very unlike his namesake.' Mrs. Burke sighed. 'It is certainly Btrange that their names should be the same. I often wondered Sheila- ' But Sheila was gone. And when she returned to the drawingroom a few hours later her mother saw with pain that she had been weeping bitterly. , That she and her mother .should get away from Leamount before Mr. Burke'.s heir appeared upon the scene was now Sheila's most earnest wish, and without delay tshe rented a cottage about a mile from Coote-hill. A fortnight elapsed, and nothing was heard from either the heir or his solicitors. 'Once to-morrow is over we'll pack up and go,' decided Sheila on Christmas Eve, as she walked briskly home through the wood. 'He may come suddenly and expect to find us gone. Dear old home I 'Tis sad to think it is our last Christmas here. And, oh ! how strange it is that another George Lyons should have come into my life, my thoughts. Will he — the firt-t — ever return / Yes, as a friend, perhaps, of this man's. And I — oh t how shall I meet him I How greet him as an acquaintance .' God help me ; it will be hard, but it must be done.' Overhead the sky was blue and cloudless. There was a slight touch of frost in the air, but the sun shone brightly, and one might have fancied it was a day in early spring, instead of Christmas Eve. Here and there a robin or a thrush piped merrily on branch or twig. Little brown rabbits crept out from the under.

wood and came up close to her feet, apparently unconscious of her presence. For some moments all was still, and then there was a scouring and a scampering, and the little creatures beat a hasty retreat as footsteps were heard in the distance. Sheila smiled, then glanced round to see who was coming. But no one was visible, and she sank back with a sigh, and covered her face with her hands. But presently footsteps were heard again, this time close by ; and before Sheila had time to move or to realise what had happened she found herself face to face with George Lyons, felt her hand in his, heard his voice, as in a dream. Mie» Imrke, Siieiia, you ar« in uoubie < he urieu. ' Yes. My uncle, I dare say you have heard, is dead. We,' her voice trembled, • must leave Lfamount. ' Yes ; I know— that is — Sheila, I have come to-day to ask you a question and to make a confession.' The girl started and her color deepened. Without daring to raise her eyes she said :—: — I A question 1 A confession ? What can they be ? ' ' Can't you guess ? Don't you know that I love you 7 Sheila, can you— will you be my wife ? ' For a moment the girl made no reply. Her heart beat quickly, and her lips quivered. Then, looking up with a shy glance, she laid her had in his. ' Yes,' she said simply, • 1 will be your wife. Ido love you dearly.' ' God bless you.' He caught her hand and carried it to his lips. ' And now for my confession. Sheila, I have won your love on false pretences. I ' She looked up, startled. ' I led you to suppose that there were two men called George Lyons. There is only one ' ' Then you ' I 1 am that one— your uncle's adopted aon. Can you forgive my deception and love me still ? ' ' But why did you deceive us .' ' ' I can hardly tell. I came here at your uncle's wish to make your acquaintance ; met you accidentally, and loved you ' ' But Father Tom, did he, too ' " 'No. I met him in Switzerland, and he knew me only aa George Lyons— never guessed that I had any connection with your Leamount.' ' Leamount I Why, it is yours. George I ' ' Yes, and yours. My darling, neither you nor your mother need ever leave your home now. Your uncle knew that I loved you and hoped that you might perhaps love me in return. I told him everything at the beginning of that last illness that kept me so long away from you. He was delighted, ard hi* great desire was to see us happy at Leamount together. God willed otherwise, and took him to himself. But, Sheila, you are weeping. Are you not happy, sweetheart?' 'Happy?' she crifd. smilincr through her tears. ' Glory be to God on high. I thought— l Ivli. v<d this would be the saddest Christmas of my lift- ; and now— oh, George ! ' with a bright blush, 1 you have made it the h,ippi._-t.' * * # Thus were Sheila's prayer" answered, her vows fulfilled. Adhering firmly and unselfishly to tho path of duty, she attained a happiness greater than anything sh» had ever imagined possible — life with her husband and mother in her own beautiful home, in the country that she loved —Clara Ml luolland. in the Catholic Home A nnua> ',