l to me," says Desmond, slowly, "and be sure of this,
that what you _do_ say will be heard by you and me alone."

"I believe you," she answers, with a little sigh.

"And, besides, we are not altogether strangers," he goes on, lightly;
"that day on the river is a link between us, isn't it?"

"Oh, yes, the river," she says, smiling.

"_Our_ river. I have brought myself to believe it is our joint property:
no one else seems to know anything about it."

"I have never been near it since," says Monica.

"I _know that_," returns he, meaningly.

"How?" is almost framed upon her lips; but a single glance at him
renders her dumb. Something in his expression suggests the possibility
that he has spent pretty nearly all his time since last they met, and
_certainly_ all his afternoons, upon that shady river just below the
pollard willows, in the vain hope of seeing her arrive.

She blushes deeply, and then, in spite of herself, laughs out loud, a
low but ringing laugh, full of music and mischief.

This most uncalled-for burst of merriment has the effect of making Mr.
Desmond preternaturally grave.

"May I ask what you are laughing at?" he says, with painful politeness;
whereupon Miss Beresford checks her mirth abruptly, and has the grace to
blush again even harder than before. Her confusion is, indeed, the
prettiest thing possible.

"I don't know," she says, in an evasive tone.

"People generally _do_ know what they are laughing at," contends he,
seriously.

"Well, _I_ don't," returns she, with great spirit.

"Of course not, if you _say_ so; but," with suppressed wrath, "I don't
myself think there is anything provocative of mirth in the thought of a
fellow wasting hour after hour upon a lonely stream in the insane but
honest hope of seeing somebody who _wouldn't_ come. Of course in your
eyes the fellow was a fool to do it; but--but if I were the girl I
wouldn't laugh at him for it."

Silence.

Monica's eyes are bent upon the ground; her face is averted; but there
is something about her attitude that compels Mr. Desmond to believe she
is sorry for her untimely laughter; and thinking this breeds hatred
towards himself for having caused this sorrow and makes him accuse
himself of basest ill temper.

"I beg your pardon!" he says, in a contrite tone; "I shouldn't have
spoken to you like that. I lost my temper most absurdly and must
apologize to you for it now. It was ridiculous of me to suppose you
would ever come ag