ole. Mr. Kelly is walking up and down on the gravelled walk
outside, smoking a cigar.

"Because Miss Beresford was there," says Brian, breaking a grape
languidly from the bunch he holds in his hand.

"_What!_" says Mr. Desmond, facing him.

"Because Miss Beresford was there."

"What am I to understand by that?"

"That she was there, I suppose," says Brian, laughing, "and that I am
head over ears in love with her."

"How dare you say such a thing as that to me?" says the squire, pushing
back his chair and growing a lively purple. "Are you going to tell me
next you mean to marry her?"

"I certainly do," says Brian; "and," with a glance of good-humored
defiance at the squire, "I'm the happiest man in the world to-day
because she last night told me she'd have me."

"You shan't do it!" says the squire, now almost apoplectic. "You shan't
do it!--do you hear? I'm standing in your poor father's place, sir, and
I _forbid_ you to marry one of that blood. What! marry the
daughter--of--of--" something in his throat masters him here,--"the
niece of Priscilla Blake, a woman with a tongue! Never!"

"My dear George, you wouldn't surely have me marry a woman _without_
one?"

"I think all women would be better without them; and as for Priscilla
Blake's, I tell you, sir, Xantippe was an angel to her. I insist on your
giving up this idea at once."

"I certainly shan't give up Miss Beresford, if that is what you mean?"

"Then I'll disinherit you!" roars the squire. "I will, I swear it! I'll
marry myself. I'll do something desperate!"

"No, you won't," says Brian, laughing again; and going over to the old
man, he lays his hands upon his shoulders and pushes him gently back
into his chair. "When you see her you will adore her, and she sent her
love to you this morning, and this, too," laying a photograph of Monica
before the Squire, who glances at it askance, as though fearful it may
be some serpent waiting to sting him for the second time; but, as he
looks, his face clears.

"She is not like her mother," he says, in a low tone.

"I never met such a remorseful old beggar," thinks Desmond, with wonder;
but just at this moment a servant enters with a message to the squire;
so the photograph is hastily withdrawn, and the conversation--or rather
discussion--comes to an end.

"Two of the tenants are asking to see you, sir," says the butler,
confidentially.

"What two?"

"Donovan, from the East, and Moloney, from the Bog Roa