the old fruit-trees,
burns little crimson patches on Belle's fair skin, and turns Honor's
cheeks to the hue of wild poppies. The air is heavy with a dozen
different odors--of ripening fruit, mignonette, wild roses,
and--sweetest of all perhaps--clover from the great sloping fields
outside the orchard wall.

Launce has thrown himself upon the grass almost at Belle's feet, and is
talking in his low musical voice.

"Tantalizing the poor little thing!" Honor says to herself, as she
peeps across at them from her nest among the branches.

She is very fond of Belle Delorme, and she knows that not in all
Ireland could her brother find a sweeter, truer little wife. Perhaps he
is of the same opinion--perhaps not. It is not easy to read the
thoughts behind that square, masterful brow of his.

Presently they stroll away together, leaving Honor alone.

As she lies there in her low hammock, the shadows of leaf and bough
flickering on her face, a hand parts the branches, and a man looks in
at her.

She flushes deeply in her surprise at the sight of him, and then sits
up with a jerk that nearly brings her out of her nest with more speed
than grace.

"I'm sorry to have disturbed you," he says, smiling; "but I thought you
were asleep, and I could not help envying the good fortune of the fairy
prince who might be lucky enough to awaken you after the fashion of
fairy princes."

Something in his voice or in his eyes as he looks down at her makes the
light words seem almost tender.

"But no fairy princess ever come to Ireland, Mr. Beresford; it's only a
'fine country spoiled,' you know, and 'sunk in semi-barbarism'--not at
all the sort of place for a fairy prince to come to."

"I don't know that at all, Honor."

It is the first time he has called her Honor, and she looks up at him
half startled as he continues:

"It seems to me the fairy prince might travel farther and fare worse."

"But he might not think so, particularly if he was an English fairy
prince," the girl says dryly.

"Why are you so hard on us, Honor? Why are you so hard on me? I should
say. For you are sweetness itself to that little curate of Drum, and
he's about the poorest specimen of the Cockney I ever met."

"You couldn't expect that any but the 'poorest specimen' would
condescend to be a curate at Drum," she returns flippantly.

Taking no heed of her interruption, he goes on:

"You have grudged every kind word, every little attention lavished on
m