Desmond suffers many
things at the hands of his lady-love.

For the next few days the sun is conspicuous by its absence, and Jupiter
Tonans, with all his noisy train, is abroad. There is nothing but rain
everywhere and at all hours, and a certain chill accompanying it, that
makes one believe (with "Elia," is it not?) that "a bad summer is but
winter painted green."

The light is dimmed, the winds sigh heavily, all through these days, and
on the hills around, "the hooded clouds, like friars, tell their beads
in drops of rain."

But on Thursday evening it clears a little,--not sufficiently to allow
one to wander happily through shrubbery or garden, but enough to augur
well for the morrow, when the much longed for dance at the Barracks is
due.

And, indeed, when Friday dawns all nature is glorious. O'er sea and land
there floats a brightness indescribable, with no fleck or flaw upon its
beauty. In every nook and glade and hollow is glad sunshine, and a soft
rushing breeze that bids the heart rejoice, and uplift itself in joyous
praise to the Great Power who calls the heavens His Throne.

Birds are singing upon every bough, to give the day "good-morrow," and
the small streamlets, swollen by past rains, are chanting loud but soft
harmonies to the water-pixies, as they dash headlong towards the river
down below.

"No tears
Dim the sweet look that Nature wears."

but rather a smile is on leaf, and flower, and waving bracken. And on
Monica, too, as, with glad eyes and parted lips, she steps lightly into
the shadow of the old porch at Moyne. No sweeter presence ever honored
it. Leaning against one of the pillars, she steps forward, and gazes
almost gratefully at the merry sunbeams, as they creep up in homage to
her feet and then go swiftly back again.

She is dressed to-day in a pale blue batiste gown, that rivals in hue
the delicate azure of the skies above her. Her large black hat is a mass
of Spanish lace, her long gloves are of the same sombre shade, and so
are her shoes, though relieved by buckles. With that smile upon her
lips, and the subdued expectation in her eyes, she looks the
personification of all that is tender, pure, and lovable.

"Are you ready?" asks Kit, joining her. "The carriage is coming round."

"Quite."

"All but your fan: where is that?"

"Ah! true; I forgot it. It must be on my table. I----"

"No, do not stir. I will get it for you. It would be a shame to