echoes Miss Penelope, gently. Though deeply
distressed, both old ladies are conscious of a subdued admiration for
the young man, because of the tenderness of his fears for his beloved.

"But if," says Miss Priscilla, with a mournful glance at the pretty
bowed head--"if _she_ thinks we have failed in our love towards her, as
indeed it seems it may be, by your finding it necessary to ask us to
treat her with kindness in this trouble,--we can only say to her that we
regret,--that we----" Here she breaks down, and covers her sad old face
with her trembling hands.

Monica springs to her feet.

"Oh, auntie!" she says, a world of love and reproach and penitence in
her voice. She throws her arms round her aunt's neck; and, Miss
Priscilla clasping her in turn, somehow in one moment the crime is
condoned, and youth and age are met in a fond embrace.

"Go, sir," says Miss Priscilla, presently, without lifting her eyes.
There is so much gentleness in her tone that the young man is emboldened
to ask a question.

"You will permit me to come to-morrow, to--to--plead my cause?" he says,
anxiously.

Miss Priscilla hesitates, and a pang of apprehension rushes through his
heart. He is almost in despair, when Miss Penelope's voice breaks the
oppressive silence.

"Yes. Come to-morrow," she says, pressing Miss Priscilla's arm. "To-day
we are too tired, too upset. To-morrow let it be."

"I thank you madam," says Desmond, humbly; and then he turns to go, but
still lingers, with grieved eyes fixed on Monica.

"Monica, you will give me one parting word?" he says, at last, as though
the petition is wrung from him.

Still holding Miss Priscilla's hand, she turns to him, and, raising her
other arm, places it softly round his neck. Holding them both thus, she
seems the embodiment of the spirit that must in the end unite them. Her
position compels her to throw back her head a little, and she smiles at
him, a sad little smile, but bright with love and trust.

"Not a _parting_ word," she says, with a sweetness so grave as to be
almost solemn.

"You will be true to me?" says Desmond, reckless of listeners. He has
his arms round her, and is waiting for her answer with a pale, earnest
face. Something in the whole scene touches the two kindly old maids with
a sense of tender reverence.

"Until my death," says the girl, with slow distinctness, laying her head
against the gray sleeve of his coat.

A great wave of color--born of emotion and