or an hour at least. The
old lady with her is Lady Rossmoyne, and she never lets any one
(unfortunate enough to get into her clutches) go free under a generous
sixty minutes. She is great on manures, and stock, and turnips, and so
forth. And your aunt, I hear, is a kindred spirit."

"But then there is Aunt Penelope," says Monica, timidly.

"She, too, is arranged. Half an hour ago I met her so deep in a
disgraceful flirtation with the vicar that I felt it my duty to look the
other way. Depend upon it, she is not thinking of you."

"But some one may tell them I have been talking to you."

"I always thought I had a proper amount of pride until I met you," says
Mr. Desmond. "You have dispelled the belief of years. 'Is thy servant a
dog,' that you should be ostracized for speaking to him? Never mind; I
submit even to that thought if it gives me five minutes more of your
society. But listen to me. No one can tell tales of us, because we are
both strangers in the land. No one knows me from Adam, and just as few
know you from--let us say _Eve_, for euphony's sake."

She laughs. Encouraged by her merriment to believe that at least she
bears him no ill will, Brian says, hurriedly,--

"Come with me to the rose-garden. It is stupid sitting here alone, and
the garden is beyond praise. Do come."

"Why?" lifting her heavy lashes.

"For one thing, we shall be free from observation, and you know you
dislike being seen with me. For another----" He pauses.

"Well?" rather nervously.

"It is just this, that I _must_ speak to you," says the young man, his
gay manner changing to one of extreme earnestness. "You were unkind to
me that day we parted. I want you to tell me why. I understand quite
that I have no right to demand even the smallest favor of you, yet I do
entreat you to come with me."

For another moment she hesitates, then--

"Yes, I will come with you," she says, raising her soft eyes to his. In
her whole manner, voice, and bearing there is something so sweet and
childish and trusting as to render Desmond her slave upon the spot.

The path to the rose-garden leads away from Miss Priscilla, so they
avoid detection as they go.

But they are singularly silent and grave; when the garden is reached
they pass between the rows of growing blossoms mute, if rich in thought.
At last, when silence is becoming too eloquent to be borne, her
companion turns to her.

"It wasn't _true_ what you said to me that last day, was it?"