e not, indeed! But still----there is
something else that you might do for _me_."

Miss Beresford draws herself a little--_a very_ little--away from him,
and, raising her head, bestows upon him a glance that is a charming
combination of mischief and coquetry. A badly-suppressed smile is
curving the corner of her delicate lips.

"What a long time it takes you to _say_ it!" she says, wickedly.

At this they both break into low, soft laughter,--_delicious_
laughter!--that must not be overheard, and is suggestive of a little
secret existing between them, that no one else may share.

"That is an invitation," says Desmond, with decision. "I consider you
have now restored to me that paltry promise I made to you the other day
in the orchard. And here I distinctly decline ever to renew it again.
No, there is no use in appealing to me: I am not to be either softened
or coerced."

"Well," says Miss Beresford, "listen to me." She stands well back from
him this time, and, catching up the tail of her white gown, throws it
negligently over her arm. "If you _must_ have--you know what!--at least
you shall earn it. I will race you for it, but you must give me long
odds, and then, if you catch me before I reach that laurel down there,
you shall have it. Is that fair?"

Plainly, from her exultant look, she thinks she can win.

"A bargain!" says Desmond. "And, were you Atalanta herself, I feel I
shall outrun you."

"_So_ presumptuous! Take care. 'Pride goeth before destruction, and a
haughty spirit before a fall,' and you may trip."

"I may not, too."

"Well," moving cautiously away from him, "when I come to that branch
there, and say one, two, three, you--will----_Now!_"

At this, before he is half prepared, she cries, "one, two, three," with
scandalous haste, and rushes away from him down the moonlit path. Swift
and straight as a deer she flies, but, alas! just as the goal is all but
reached, she finds the race is not to her, and that she is a prisoner in
two strong arms!

"Now, who was presumptuous?" says Desmond, gazing into her lovely face.
Her head, with a touch of exhaustion about it, is thrown back against
his chest; through her parted lips her breath is coming with a panting
haste, born of excitement and her fruitless flight. He bends over her,
lower, and lower still. She feels herself altogether in his power.

"As you are strong, be merciful," she whispers, faintly. A warm flood of
crimson has dyed her cheeks; her s