slip them on my fingers is the last thing I do every morning
before running downstairs. At least nearly the last."

"And what is the last?"

"I say my prayers," says Monica, smiling. "That is what every one does,
isn't it?"

"I don't know," says Mr. Desmond, not looking at her. It seems to him a
long, long time now since last he said _his_ prayers. And then he
suddenly decides within himself that he will say them to-morrow morning,
"the last thing before going downstairs;" he cannot have quite forgotten
_yet_.

He is examining her rings as he thinks all this, and now a little pale
turquoise thing attracts his notice.

"Who gave you that?" he asks, suddenly. It is to a jealous eye rather a
lovable little ring.

"Papa, when I was fourteen," says Monica. "It is very pretty, isn't it?
I have felt quite grown up ever since he gave me that."

"Monica," says Brian Desmond suddenly, tightening his hold on her hand,
"had you ever a lover before?"

"Before?"

"Yes," slowly, and as if determined to make his meaning clear, and yet,
too, with a certain surprise at his own question. "Had you?"

"Before?" as if bewildered, she repeats the word again. "Why, I never
had a lover _at all_!"

"Do not say that again," says Brian, moving a step nearer to her and
growing pale: "I am your lover now--and _forever_!"

"Oh! no, _no,_" says Monica, shrinking from him. "Do not say that."

"I won't, if you forbid me, but," quietly, "I am, and shall be, all the
same. I think my very soul--belongs to you."

A crunching of gravel, a sound of coming footsteps, the murmur of
approaching voices.

Monica, pallid as an early snowdrop, looks up to see her Aunt Priscilla
coming towards her, accompanied by a young man, a very tall and very
stout young man, with a rather drilled air.

"Ah! here is Aunt Priscilla," says Monica, breathlessly. "Who is that
with her?"

"Ryde, one of the marines stationed at Clonbree," says Mr. Desmond,
cursing the marine most honestly in his heart of hearts. Clonbree is a
small town about seven miles from Rossmoyne, where a company of marines
has been sent to quell the Land League disturbances.

Miss Priscilla is looking quite pleased with herself, and greets Monica
with a fond smile.

"I knew I should find you here," she says; "flowers have such a
fascination for you. You will let me introduce you to Mr. Ryde, dear
child!"

And then the introduction is gone through, and Monica says something
unworthy o