Dorothy Eden by Never Call It Loving

begun to blow a gale. After the children had gone to bed Miss Glennister excused herself, saying she had letters to write. The two women often spent the evening by the fire together, although Katharine found Miss Glennister dull company, and was always glad when she had gone upstairs.
    But tonight the house seemed particularly lonely. It was probably because the wind was crying outside, and she kept thinking of the same gale blowing across the sea and battering at the poor dark miserable cottages and cabins in Ireland. She prayed that Charles was safely at Avondale, and not sheltering in one of the comfortless cottages himself. Would he be put in jail, as Willie had so blithely suggested? She could not bear the thought. His last letter had been written before Christmas. There hadn’t been a word since. Where was he? Why didn’t he write?
    Ellen came in to ask if the mistress would like a hot drink before going upstairs. It was such a cold stormy night, a body froze going from one room to another.
    “It’s going to snow, I feel it in my bones. Then shall I just be getting you a wee drop of hot milk, ma’am—” She stopped abruptly as the front door bell rang. “Mercy, who can that be at this hour?”
    Katharine started up. Was it Willie back in a more congenial frame of mind?
    “Now, ma’am, don’t you come out in the cold, I’ll see to it.”
    But Katharine, possessed by uneasiness, followed her, and was standing just inside the hall when Ellen flung open the door to reveal the tall figure with the first flakes of snow on his shoulders.
    “Charles!” Katharine whispered.
    She would never know how she stopped herself from running into his arms. Probably it was because Ellen, belatedly realising who the visitor was, had fallen on her knees and impulsively kissed his hand. It was Mr. Parnell, praise be to God. She had his picture hanging round her neck, and now there he was in front of her, escaped from all those courtrooms and trials that the bloody English had devised.
    “Close the door, Ellen,” Katharine heard herself saying calmly. “Mr. Parnell, what a surprise. Do come in to the fire. You must be frozen, travelling on such a night. You haven’t crossed the Irish Channel?”
    “I have indeed, and it isn’t a thing I would care to repeat in this weather. May I trespass on your hospitality tonight, Mrs. O’Shea?”
    “But of course. Your room is always ready, as you know. Willie was here earlier but went back to town. And I was sitting alone by the fire wondering how the trial was going. They let you free?”
    “You see me here.”
    “Yes, I do.” Ellen was still gaping. Katharine said, “Ellen, tell Jane to light the fire in Mr. Parnell’s room. And prepare a tray. Something hot.”
    Ellen bustled off and she drew him into the sitting room, closing the door, and, with a sigh, going into his arms.
    “Oh, my love, you’re safe. I’ve worried so.”
    He kissed her, holding her closely.
    “Kate! Let me look at you. Are you a little thin?”
    “It would be no wonder.”
    “But I was never in danger. You should have known that.”
    “I feel as if you’re always in danger. And anyway jail would have been bad enough.”
    “But there was no likelihood of jail. There may be later. But not this time.” He laughed. “Did you think a jury of my own people would convict me?”
    “Then what happened?”
    “The jury retired, and when they came back after a very long time the clerk of the crown asked, ‘Have you agreed to your verdict, gentlemen?’ ‘No,’ said the foreman. The Judge then had to have a word. ‘Is there any likelihood of your agreeing?’ ‘Not a bit, my lord. We are unanimous that we can’t agree.’”
    Katharine laughed helplessly. “You Irish! So what happened?”
    “The Judge said that he couldn’t force an agreement, and I was only grateful that I had time to catch the steamer. I had been willing the jury not to embark on their usual long discussion of politics and hold