u, and that is, 'Good-by.'"

"Why this mad haste?"

"Ah, ha! I Can have my little secrets, too," says he. "A whisper in your
ear," leaning toward her.

"No, thank you," says she, waving him off with determination. "I
remember your last whisper. There! if you can't stay, Dicky, good by
indeed. I'm going for a walk."

She turns away resolutely, leaving Mr. Browne to sink back upon the seat
and continue his reading, or else to go and meet that secret he spoke
of.

"I say," calls he, running after her. "You may as well see me as far as
the gate, any way." It is evident the book at least has lost its charms.
Miss Kavanagh not being stony hearted so far gives in as to walk with
him to a side gate, and having finally bidden him adieu, goes back to
the summer house he has quitted, and, opening her book, prepares to
enjoy herself.

Vain preparation! It is plain that the fates are against her to-day. She
is no sooner seated, with her book of poetry open on her knee, than a
little flying form turns the corner and Tommy precipitates himself upon
her.

"What are you doing?" asks he.

CHAPTER LIX.

"Lips are so like flowers
I might snatch at those
Redder than the rose leaves,
Sweeter than the rose."

"Love is a great master."

"I am reading," says she. "Can't you see that?"

"Read to me, then," says Tommy, scrambling up on the bench beside her
and snuggling himself under her arm. "I love to hear people."

"Well, not this, at all events," says Miss Kavanagh, placing the dainty
copy of "The Muses of Mayfair," she has been reading on the rustic table
in front of her.

"Why not that one? What is it?" asks Tommy, staring at the book.

"Nothing you would like. Horrid stuff. Only poetry."

"What's poetry?"

"Oh, nonsense, Tommy, you know very well what poetry is. Your hymns are
poetry." This she considers will put an end to all desire for the book
in question. It is a clever and skilful move, but it fails signally.
There is silence for a moment while Tommy cogitates, and then----

"Are those hymns?" demands he, pointing at the discarded volume.

"N-o, not exactly." This is scarcely disingenuous, and Miss Kavanagh has
the grace to blush a little. She is the further discomposed in that she
becomes aware presently that Tommy sees through her perfectly.

"Well, what are they?" asks he.

"Oh--er--well--just poetry, you know."

"I don't," says Tommy, flatly, who is nothing if not painfull