nica would not go to the river this evening because she remembered an
absurd promise she made to Aunt Priscilla, and because she feared to
meet you there. It is the most absurd promise in the world: wait till
you hear it." Whereupon Kit, who is in her element, proceeds to tell him
all about Miss Priscilla's words to Monica, and Monica's answer, and her
(Kit's) interpretation thereof. "She certainly didn't promise never to
speak to you again," concludes she, with a nod Solomon might have
envied.

Need it be said that Mr. Desmond agrees with her on all points?

"There is no use in continuing the discussion," says Monica, turning
aside a little coldly. "I should not have gone to the river, _anyway_."

This chilling remark produces a blank indescribable, and conversation
languishes: Monica betrays an interest in the horizon never before
developed; Mr. Desmond regards with a moody glance the ripening harvest;
and Kit, looking inward, surveys her mental resources and wonders what
it is her duty to do next.

"For aught that ever I could read,
Could ever hear by tale or history,
The course of true love never did run smooth."

_This_ much she knows; and to any one blessed with a vision sharp as
hers it is very apparent now that there is a roughness somewhere. She
knows too, through many works of fiction, that those in attendance on
loving couples should at certain seasons see cause to absent themselves
from their duty, and search for a supposititious handkerchief or sprain
an unoffending ankle, or hunt diligently in hedgerows for undiscoverable
flowers. Three paths therefore lie open to her; which to adopt is the
question. To return to the house for a handkerchief would be a decidedly
risky affair, calculated to lead up to stiff and damning
cross-examination from the aunts, which might prove painful; to sprain
an ankle might prove even painfuller; but to dive into the innocent
hedgerow for the extraction of summer flowers, what can be more
effectual and reasonable? she will do it at once.

"Oh, what lovely dog-roses!" she says, effusively, in a tone that
wouldn't have deceived a baby; "I really _must_ get some."

"Let me get them for you," says Desmond, gloomily, which she at once
decides is excessively stupid of him, and she doing all she can for him
too! She tries to wither him with a glance, but he is too miserable to
be lightly crushed.

"No, thank you," she says; "I prefer getting them myself. Flowers a