' an' ghosther--in' away our time like I dunna what.
They're schamin', Miss Una--divil a thing else, an' what'll the masther
say if the same meadow's not finished to--night?"

"Indeed, Mike," replied Una--; "if the meadow is to be finished this
night, there's little time to be lost."

"Come, boys," exclaimed Mike, "you hear what Miss Una says--if it's
to be finished to-night there's but little time to be lost--turn
out--march. Miss Una can watch the bees widout our help. Good evenin',
Misther Donovan; be my word, but you're entitled to a taste o' honey any
way, for bringing back Miss Una's bees to her."

Mike, after having uttered this significant opinion relative to his
sense of justice, drove his fellow-servants out of the garden, and left
the lovers together. There was now a dead silence, during the greater
part of which, neither dared to look at the other; at length each
hazarded a glance; their eyes met, and their embarrassment deepened in
a tenfold degree. Una, on withdrawing her gaze, looked with an air of
perplexity from one object to another, and at length, with downcast
lids, and glowing cheeks, her eyes became fixed on her own white and
delicate finger.

"Who would think," said she, in a voice tremulous with agitation, "that
the sting of a bee could be so painful."

Connor advanced towards her with a beating heart. "Where have you been
stung, Miss O'Brien?" said he, in a tone shaken out of it's fulness by
what he felt.

"In the finger," she replied, and she looked closely into the spot as
she uttered the words.

"Will you let me see it?" asked Connor.

She held her hand towards him without knowing what she did, nor was it
till after a strong effort that Connor mastered himself so far as to ask
her in which finger she felt the pain. In fact, both saw at once that
their minds were engaged upon far different thoughts, and that their
anxiety to pour out the full confession of their love was equally deep
and mutual.

As Connor put the foregoing question to her, he took her hand in his.

"In what finger?" she replied, "I don't--indeed--I--I believe in
the--the--but what--what is this?--I am very--very weak."

"Let me support you to the summer--house, where you can sit," returned
Connor, still clasping her soft delicate hand in his; then, circling her
slender waist with the other, he helped her to a seat under the thick
shade of the osiers.

Una's countenance immediately became pale as death, and her