e,
will think we mean to take up our residence at Moyne for good."

"Oh, now, Gertrude!" says Miss Priscilla, much shocked. But Madam
O'Connor only laughs heartily, and gives her a little smart blow on the
shoulder with her fan. Olga laughs too, gayly, and Hermia lets her lips
part with one of her rare but perfect smiles. If she likes any one
besides Olga and her children, it is bluff and blunt old Gertrude
O'Connor.

One by one they all walk away, and presently Moyne is lying in the dying
sunshine, in all its usual quietude, with never a sound to disturb the
calm of coming eve but the light rustling of the rising breeze among the
ivy-leaves that are clambering up its ancient walls.

Kit and Terry are indoors, laughing merrily over the day, and
congratulating themselves upon the success it has certainly been.

"Yes. I do think, Penelope, they all enjoyed themselves," says Miss
Priscilla, in high glee; "and your claret-cup, my dear, was superb."

But Monica has stolen away from them all. The strange restlessness that
has lain upon her all day is asserting itself with cruel vigor, and
drives her forth into the shadows of the coming night.

All day long she has struggled bravely against it; but, now that the
enforced necessity for liveliness is at an end, she grows dreamy,
_distraite_, and feels an intense longing for solitude and air.

Again she walks through the now deserted garden, where the flowers,
"earth's loveliest," are drooping their sweet heads to seek their happy
slumbers. Past them she goes with lowered head and thoughts engrossed,
and so over the lawn into the wood beyond.

Here Coole and Moyne are connected by a high green bank, that in early
spring is studded and diamonded with primroses and now is gay with
ferns. Not until she has reached this boundary does she remember how far
she has come.

She climbs the bank, and gazes with an ever-growing longing at the cool
shade in the forbidden land, at the tall, stately trees, and the
foxgloves nodding drowsily.

It is a perfect evening, and as yet the god of day--great Sol--is riding
the heavens with triumphant mirth, as though reckless of the death that
draweth nigh. Shall he not rise again to-morrow morn in all his awful
majesty, and so defy grim Mars? It is, indeed, one of those hours when
heaven seems nearest earth, "as when warm sunshine thrills wood-glooms
to gold," and "righteousness and peace have kissed each other," and
Nature, tender mother,