irteen, as a rule, talk much of puppy-dogs.
I'm sure Kit doesn't," says Monica, provokingly. "And really, to do Mr.
Ryde justice too, I never heard him mention a roaring lion. Perhaps you
are thinking of Artemus Ward's lion that goes about 'seeking whom he may
devour somebody.'" She smiles in a maddening fashion.

"I am thinking of Ryde," says Desmond. "I am thinking, too, how mad I
was when I thought you liked me better than him. I _did_ think it, you
know; but now I am _desillusionnee_. It is plain to me you are
infatuated about this fellow, who is 'perfumed like a milliner' and
hasn't two ideas in his head."

"I can't think where you find all your quotations," says Monica, who is
now seriously annoyed; "but I must ask you not to worry me any further
about Mr. Ryde."

"You are madly in love with him," says Desmond, choking with rage. Upon
which Miss Beresford loses the last remnant of her patience, and very
properly turns her back on him.

The rain has ceased, but during its reign has extinguished the dying
sun, which has disappeared far below the horizon. A great hush and
silence has followed the petulant burst of storm, and a peace
unspeakable lies on all the land. There is a little glimpse of the ocean
far away beyond the giant firs, and one can see that its waves are calm,
and the fishing-boats upon its bosom scarcely rock.

The grass is bending still with the weight of the past rain, and a
plaintive dripping from the trees can be heard,--a refreshing sound that
lessens the sense of heat. The small birds stir cosily in their nests,
and now and then a drowsy note breaks from one or another; a faint mist,
white and intangible, rises from the hills, spreading from field to sky,
until

"The earth, with heaven mingled, in the shadowy twilight lay,
And the white sails seemed like spectres in a cloud-land far away."

"Ah! you don't like me to say that," says Desmond, unappeased by the
beauty of the growing night; "but----"

"Do not say another word," says Monica, imperiously. The moon is rising
slowly--slowly,--and so, by the by, is her temper. "I forbid you. Here,"
throwing to him his coat; "I think I have before remarked that the rain
is _quite_ over. I am sorry I ever touched anything belonging to you."

Desmond having received the coat, and put himself into it once more,
silence ensues. It does, perhaps, strike him as a hopeful sign that she
shows no haste to return home and so rid herself of a pr