verything. I'd be widout my right hand if I lost him."

"But I thought you said----" begins Monica, mystified by this change
from righteous wrath to unbounded admiration.

"Arrah, niver mind what I said, acushla," says the younger Mrs. Daly,
with an emphatic wink. "Sure 'twas only to keep him in ordher a bit, I
said it at all at all! But 'tis young he is yet, the crathur."

"_Very_ young. Oh, Mrs. Daly, _look_ at baby! See how she is trying to
get at my hair!" Monica is beginning in a delighted tone,--as though to
have one's hair pulled out by the roots is the most enchanting sensation
in the world,--when suddenly her voice dies away into silence, and she
herself stares with great open violet eyes at something that darkens the
doorway and throws a shadow upon the assembled group within.

It is Desmond!

Kit, feeling as guilty as though she were the leading character in some
conspiracy, colors crimson, and retires behind Mrs. Moloney. She lowers
her eyes, and is as mute as death. But Monica speaks.

"Is it you?" she says. Which, of course, is quite the silliest thing she
_can_ say, as he is standing there regarding her with eyes so full of
light and love that the cleverest ghost could not copy them. But then
she is not sillier than her fellows, for, as a rule, all people, if you
remark, say, "Is that you?" or "Have you come?" when they are actually
looking into your face and should be able to answer the question for
themselves.

"Yes, it is," says Desmond, with such an amount of diffidence (I hope it
wasn't assumed) as should have melted the heart of the hardest woman
upon earth. Monica is _not_ the hardest woman upon earth.

Still, she makes him no further speech, and Desmond begins to wonder if
he is yet forgiven. He is regarding her fixedly; but she, after that
first swift glance, has turned her attention upon the baby on her knee,
and is seemingly lost in admiration of its little snub nose. Why will
she not look at him? What did he say to her last night that is so
difficult to forgive? Can wrath be cherished for so long in that gentle
bosom? Her face is as calm as an angel's; surely

"There's nothing ill can dwell in such a temple."

"Ah! come in, Misther Desmond," says Mrs. Daly, hospitably. "I'm glad
'tis company I have before you the day. Maybe 'twill coax ye to come
again. Where have you been this week an' more? Faix, ye were so long in
comin', I thought 'twas angry wid me ye were."

"Nobody is ev