prettier one, had I run up to Dublin
and gone to Waterhouse myself," says Desmond; "but I knew if I went I
could not possibly get back until to-morrow evening, and that would mean
losing two whole days of our precious seven."

This speech pleases Monica, I think, even more than the ring.

"I am glad you did not go," she says, softly.

"So am I--especially as----" Here he pauses, and then goes on again
hurriedly. "If I had gone, Monica, you would not have forgotten me?"

"How could I forget you in two little days?"

"They would have been two very big days to me. But tell me, if I were to
go away from you for a far longer time--say for a whole month--would you
still be faithful? Should I find you as I left you,--indifferent to
others at least, if not wholly mine?"

"Why should I change?"

"Darling, there are so many reasons." He draws his breath quickly,
impatiently. "Some day, you may meet some one else--more suited to you,
perhaps, and----"

"I shall never do that." She interrupts him slowly, but decidedly.

"You are sure?"

"Yes."

The answer in words perhaps is meagre; but he, looking into the depths
of her soft eyes, sees a surer answer there, and is satisfied.

The shadows are growing longer and slower. They do not dance and quiver
now in mad glee, as they did an hour agone.

"I think we must go back," says Monica, with unconcealed regret.

"What! you will throw me again into temptation? into the very arms of
the fair Bella?" says Desmond, laughing.

"Reflect, I beg of you, before it is too late."

"After all," says Monica, "I don't think I have behaved very nicely
about her. I don't think now it would be a--a pretty thing to make you
give me the roses before her. No, you must not do that; and you must not
manage to forget them, either. You shall bring the handsomest you can
find and give them to her,--but _publicly_ Brian, just as if there was
nothing in it, you know."

"There is nothing like adhering to the strict truth," says Brian. "There
shall be nothing in my roses, I promise you,--except perfume."

CHAPTER XX.

How gossip grows rife at Aghyohillbeg--How Hermia parries the
question, and how Olga proves unkind.

"She's _disgracefully_ ugly!--I saw her quite close," says Mr. Kelly, in
an injured tone. "I wonder what on earth Madam O'Connor means by asking
her here, where she can be nothing but a blot upon a perfect landscape;
all the rest of us are so lovely."

It is four