edly _low_," says the younger Miss Beresford, with scathing
reproof.

"They weren't very low, miss. He wore one o' them cutaway coats," says
Bridget, in an injured tone.

"You fail to grasp my meaning," says Kit, gravely. "However, let it
pass. If this note requires an answer, you can wait in the next room
until I write it."

"Very well, miss," says the discomfited Bridget; and Kit, finding
herself in another moment alone, approaches the table, and with a
beating heart takes up the note. "It is--it _must_ be from Brian!"

The plot thickens; and _she_ has been selected to act a foremost part in
it! She is to be the confidante,--the tried and trusted friend; without
her aid all the fair edifice Cupid is erecting would crumble into dust.

And is there no danger, too, to be encountered,--perhaps to be met and
overcome? If perchance all be discovered,--if Aunt Priscilla should
suddenly be apprised of what is now going on beneath her very
spectacles,--will not she,--Kit,--in her character of "guide,
philosopher, and friend" to the culprits, come in for a double share of
censure? Yes, truly there are breakers ahead, and difficulties to be
overcome. There is joy and a sense of heroism in this thought; and she
throws up her small head defiantly, and puts out one foot with quite a
martial air, as it comes to her.

Then she tears open the envelope, and reads as follows:--

"DEAR LITTLE KIT,--Owing you all the love and allegiance in the world
for having helped me once, I come to you again. How am I to pass this
long day without a glimpse of _her_? It is a love-sick swain who doth
entreat your mercy. Does any happy thought run through your pretty head?
If so, my man is waiting for it somewhere; befriend me a second time.

"Ever yours,
"BRIAN."

Prompt action is as the breath of her nostrils to Kit. Drawing pen and
ink towards her, without a moment's hesitation, she scribbles an answer
to Desmond:--

"We are going towards Ballyvoureen this afternoon, to take a pudding to
old Biddy Daly: any one _chancing_ to walk there also might meet us.
Count upon me always.

"KIT."

This Machiavellian epistle, which she fondly believes to be without its
equal in the matter of depth, she folds carefully, and, enclosing it in
an envelope void of address or anything (mark the astuteness of
_that_!), calls to Bridget to return to her.

"You will find the boy you mentioned as being by birth a Madden," she
say