n reality
is letting his body grow subservient to his mind. He has even adhered
honorably to his promise not to look at her, and is still mentally
ambitious about being true to his word in this respect, when an
exclamation from her puts an end to all things.

"Oh! look at _that_ lily!" she says, excitedly. "Was there ever such a
beauty? If you will row a little more to the right, I am sure I shall be
able to get it."

"Don't stir. I'll get it," returns he, grateful to the lily for this
break in their programme; and presently the floating prize is secured,
and he lays it, wet and dripping, in her outstretched hands.

"After all, you see, you broke your promise," she says, a moment later,
most ungratefully, glancing up at him coquettishly from under her long
lashes.

"But who made me do it?" asks he, reproachfully, whereupon she laughs
and reddens.

"I never confess," she says, shaking her pretty head; "and after all--do
you know?--I am rather glad you spoke to me, because, though I like
being quite by myself at times, still I _hate_ silence when any one is
with me."

"So do I," says her companion, with the utmost cheerfulness.

"I think," leaning towards him with a friendly smile, "I cannot do
better than begin our acquaintance by telling you my name. It is Monica
Beresford."

"Monica," lingering over it lovingly; "a beautiful name, I think. I
think, too, it suits you. Mine is not to be compared to yours; but, such
as it is, I give it you!"

He throws a card into her lap.

"I hope it isn't John Smith," says Monica, smiling and picking up the
card. But, as she reads what is printed thereon, the smile fades, and an
expression of utter dismay overspreads her face.

"'Desmond'--Oh! _not_ Desmond!" she says, imploringly, her lips growing
quite pale.

"Yes, it _is_ Desmond," says the young man, half amused, half puzzled.
"You really think it ugly, then! Do you know I rather fancy my surname,
although my Chris----"

"You are not--you cannot be _the_ Desmond," interrupts she, hastily.

"No; that's my uncle," says the young man, innocently.

"Oh! then you acknowledge the crime?" in deep distress.

"I didn't know that an old Irish title must necessarily be connected
with guilt," says her companion, fairly puzzled.

"Eh?" says Monica, puzzled in her turn. "I don't understand you: I only
want to know if you are one of the _particular_ Desmonds?"

"I suppose not," he replies, now openly amused, "because I regr