Then, all at once, as it seems to Monica, the hillside seems to break in
twain, and a great iron gate appears, into which they turn to drive in
their solemn fashion down a dark avenue shaded by swaying elms.

It is a perfect place, old as the hills that surround it, and wild in
its loveliness. To right and left great trees, gnarled and moss-grown,
and dipping tangles of blackberry and fern; patches of sunlight, amidst
the gloom, that rests lovingly upon a glowing wilderness of late
bluebells, and, beyond all these broad glimpses of the glorious,
restless ocean, as it sleeps in its bay below.

Gazing at all this natural beauty, Monica's soft eyes and heart expand,
and,--

"Joy rises in her like a summer morn."

And then she sees an old house, low, broad, picturesque, with balconies
and terraces, and beyond the house slanting lawns, and at one side
tennis-courts, where many gayly-clad figures are moving to and fro.
There is a sound of subdued laughter and the perfume of many flowers,
and a general air of gayety; it is as though to-day care has utterly
forgotten this one favored corner of the earth.

Then they all descend from the time honored chariot, and cross the lawn
to where they can see their hostess standing, tall and erect and
handsome, in spite of her sixty years.

"Your niece?" says Madam O'Connor, staring hard at Monica's pure little
face, the girl looking straight back at her with a certain amount of
curiosity in her eyes.--"Well, I wish you no greater fortune than your
face, my dear," says the old Irishwoman. "It ought to be a rich one,
I'm thinking. You're like your mother, too; but your eyes are honester
than hers. You must know I knew Kitty Blake very well at one time."

"I have heard my mother speak of you," says Monica.

"Ay--so? Yet I fear there wasn't much love lost between us."

Then she turns a little aside to greet some one else, and Monica lets
her eyes roam round the grounds. Suddenly she starts, and says out
loud,--

"Ah! there is Olga?"

"You know Mrs. Bohun, then?" says her hostess, attracted by her
exclamation and her pretty vivacious expression.

"So very, very well," says Monica. She has flushed warmly, and her eyes
are brilliant. "I want to speak to her; I want to go to her, _please_."

"Bless me! what a shame to waste that lovely blush on a mere woman!"
says Madam O'Connor, with a merry laugh. "Here, Fred," turning to a
young man standing close to her with a very disconte