send you
on any errand that might destroy your present pose, you look so like a
cloud, or a thing out of one of Kate Greenaway's books."

"It is very rude to call me a thing; it is disheartening, when I
believed I was looking my best," says Monica, laughing. Somehow Kit's
praises always please her.

Then the carriage does come round, and they all get into it, and start
for their seven-miles drive, a very slow seven miles, at the end of
which they find themselves in the small town of Clonbree, mounting the
steep hill that leads to the Barracks, which are placed on almost
unsavory eminence,--all the narrow streets leading up to them being
lined with close cabins and tiny cabins that are anything but "sweets to
the sweet."

Entering the small barrack-yard and finding a door hospitably open, the
Misses Blake go up a wooden staircase, and presently find themselves on
the landing-place above, where they are welcomed effusively by Mr. Ryde,
who is looking bigger and hotter and stouter than usual.

Captain Cobbett in the largest room--there are but two available in
these rustic barracks--is trying vainly to find a comfortable corner for
old Lady Rossmoyne, who is both deaf and stupid, but who, feeling it her
duty to support on all occasions (both festive and otherwise) the
emissaries of her queen, has accepted this invitation and is now
heartily sorry for her loyalty.

She is sitting in durance vile upon a low chair, with a carpet seat and
a treacherous nature, that threatens to turn upon her and double her up
at any moment if she dare to give way to even the smallest amount of
natural animation: so perforce the poor old woman sits still, like
"patience on a monument smiling at grief," and that her own grief, too,
which, of course, is harder to bear!

"_So_ glad you've come! We were quite in despair about you; but better
late than never, eh?" says Mr. Ryde to Monica, with a fat smile. There
is rather much of "too solid flesh" about his face.

"I daresay," says Monica, very vaguely: she is looking anxiously round
her, hoping, yet dreading to see Desmond.

In the next room can be heard the sound of music. "My Queen" is being
played very prettily upon a piano by somebody. Dancing is evidently
going on, and Monica, who adores it, feels her toes trembling in her
shoes.

"May I have the pleasure of this?" says Mr. Ryde. "I've kept it for you
all along, you know. If you tell me you have already given it away, I
shall feel