As long as she could see him, or even fancy that she still saw him, she thought only of his excellence; of his high character, his kind heart, his talents--which in her estimation were ranked perhaps above their real value--his tastes, which coincided so well with her own, his quiet yet manly bearing, his useful pursuits, his gait, appearance, and demeanour.

All these were of a nature to win the heart of such a girl as Clara Desmond; and then, probably, in some indistinct way, she remembered the broad acres to which he was the heir, and comforted herself by reflecting that this at least was a match which none would think disgraceful for a daughter even of an Earl of Desmond.
But sadder thoughts did come when that figure had wholly disappeared.
Her eye, looking out into the darkness, could not but see another figure on which it had often in past times delighted almost unconsciously to dwell.

There, walking on that very road, another lover, another Fitzgerald, had sworn that he loved her; and had truly sworn so, as she well knew.

She had never doubted his truth to her, and did not doubt it now;--and yet she had given herself away to another.
And in many things he too, that other lover, had been noble and gracious, and fit for a woman to love.

In person he exceeded all that she had ever seen or dreamed of; and why should we think that personal excellence is to count for nothing in female judgment, when in that of men it ranks so immeasurably above all other excellences?
His bearing, too, was chivalrous and bold, his language full of poetry, and his manner of loving eager, impetuous, and of a kin to worship.