e day you all go to Madam O'Connor's."

This kills the storm at once.

"No, no, indeed, Aunt Penny, you shan't." Kit cries, subdued, but still
in tears. She is overcome with remorse, and blames herself cruelly in
that her ill temper should have led to this proposal of self-sacrifice.
To give in to Kit is the surest and quickest method of gaining your own
point. She throws her arms, as she speaks, around Miss Penelope's neck,
and nearly strangles that dear old lady in her remorseful agitation, to
say nothing of the deadly havoc she makes of her frills and laces.

"But indeed, my Kitten, it will be no privation to me to stay at home
with you, and we will be quite happy together, and we will have our tea
out in the orchard," says Miss Penelope, soothing her with sweet words;
while Miss Priscilla, who is thoroughly frightened by the sobbing, pats
the refractory child on the back, with a view to allaying all fear of
convulsions.

"You shan't stay at home, Aunt Penny,--you shan't indeed," cries the
inconsistent Kitten. "I like being alone, I _love_ it; if you don't go
to that place with the long name, and enjoy yourself very much, I shall
be miserable all my life, though I love you very, very, _very_ much for
wishing to keep me from being lonely. Tell her I mean it, Monica."

"Yes, I am sure she means it," says Monica, earnestly, whereupon peace
is once more restored to the breasts of the terrified aunts.

CHAPTER VI.

How Monica goes to Aghyohillbeg, and meets there an old friend and a
very new one.

Time flies, and no man can reach his hand to stay it. A very good thing,
too, thinks Monica, as she stands before her looking-glass putting the
last pretty touches to her white toilet.

It is Friday. Madam O'Connor's garden-party lies before her, and,
probably, other things. Here she blushes at herself, as she sees that
pretty soul in the glass, though, indeed, she has no cause to do so; but
possibly the vague thought of those "other things" has something to do
with it, and perhaps it is for their sake too that she places with such
care the heavy, blood-colored rose beneath her chin.

This is the only suspicion of color about her. Her gown is white; her
hat is white; long white silk gloves run up her rounded arms as though
bent on joining her sleeves far above the elbow. A white Surat sash is
tied round her dainty waist. She is looking "as fair as the moon, as
lovely as a rose," and altogether distinctly d