ith delight," says
Terence, fairly bubbling over with joy at the recollection. "It was the
most humiliating sight for a modest brother. I shall never forgive her
for it. Besides, the strange young man was----"

"If you say another word," says Monica, white with wrath and tears in
her eyes, "I shall never speak to you again, or help you out of any
trouble."

This awful threat has the desired effect of reducing Mr. Beresford to
subjection. He goes down before the foe, and truckles to her meanly.

"You needn't take it so much to heart," he says soothingly: "there
wasn't much in it, after all; and your shoes are very pretty, and so are
your feet."

The compliment works wonders; Monica quite brightens up again, but the
two old ladies are hopelessly scandalized.

"I feel assured, Terence," says Miss Priscilla, with much dignity, "that
under _no_ circumstances could a niece of mine show too much of
her----her----"

Here Miss Priscilla blushes, and breaks down.

"Legs?" suggests Terry, politely.

"But who was the strange young man?" asks Miss Penelope, curiously.

"Our friend of the hay-cart said his name was Desmond, and that he was
nephew to the master of the house behind the big gates," returns Kit,
fluently.

"Desmond!" says Miss Priscilla, greatly agitated. "Let me never hear you
mention that name again! It has been our bane! Forget you have ever been
so unfortunate as to encounter this young man; and if ill luck should
ever drive him across your path again, remember you do not--you never
_can_--know him."

"But I'm certain he will know Monica if he sees her again," says Kit.
"He stared at her as if she had seven heads."

"No wonder, considering her equivocal position. And as to knowing
Monica, I'm not certain of that, of course, but I'm utterly positive he
could swear to her _shoes_ in a crowd," says Terence, with unholy
delight. "He was enchanted with them, and with the clocks on her
stockings: I think he was taking the pattern of them."

"He was _not_," says Monica, almost weeping. "He couldn't see them. I
was too high up."

"What will you bet he doesn't know the color of them?" asks her
tormentor, with a fresh burst of appreciation of the undignified scene.
"When I see him again I'll ask him."

"Terence," says Miss Priscilla, growing very pale, "you must never see
him again, or, at all events, you must never speak to him. Understand,
once for all, that intimacy between us and the inhabitants of Cool