our strength to
conquer faith and the immutability of its decrees fills her with
consternation and a fretful desire for freedom. Yet above and beyond all
these vain imaginings is a gladness and a pride that her power is strong
enough to draw her lover to her side in spite of all difficulties.

The bareheaded young man has come up to her by this time, and is
holding out his hand: silently she lays her own in it, and colors
treacherously as his fingers close on hers in a close, tender, and
possessive fashion.

"I found the river too chilly," he says, smiling, "so I came on here.
Having been unsuccessful all the afternoon and morning, I _knew_ I
should find you _now_."

This might be hieroglyphics to others, but is certainly English to her,
however she may pretend otherwise; she doesn't pretend much, to do her
justice.

"This is your sister?" goes on Desmond, looking at Kit, who is regarding
him with an eye that is quite a "piercer."

"Yes," says Monica. "Kit, this is Mr. Desmond."

"I know that," says this _enfant terrible_, still fixing him with a
glance of calm and searching scrutiny that is well calculated to
disconcert even a bolder man. Then all at once her mind seems made up,
and, coming forward, she holds out her hand, and says, "How d'ye do?" to
him, with a sudden, rare sweet smile that convinces him at once of her
sisterhood to Monica.

"We are friends?" he says, being attracted to the child for her own
grace alone, as well as for the charm of her relationship to the pale
snowdrop of a girl beside her.

"Yes. If you prove true to my Monica."

"Oh, Kit!" says Monica, deeply shocked; but Kit pays no heed, her eyes
being fastened gravely upon the man before her. He is quite as grave as
she is.

"If our friendship depends upon that, it will be a lasting one," he
says, quietly. "My whole life is at your sister's service."

Something in his tones touches Monica: slowly she lifts her eyes until
they reach his.

"I wish, I _wish_ you would not persist in this," she says, sadly.

"But why? To think of you is my chiefest joy. Do you forbid me to be
happy?"

"No--but--"

"In the morning and the afternoon I went to the river, to look for
you--in vain; after dinner I went too, still hoping against hope; and
now at last that I _have_ found you, you are unkind to me!" He speaks
lightly, but his eyes are earnest. "Miss Katherine," he says appealingly
to Kit, "of your grace, I pray you to befriend me."

"Mo