“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 whole frame trembled excessively. “You are too weak even to sit without support,” said Connor, “your head is droopin'. For God's sake, lean it over on me! Oh! I'd give ten thousand lives to have it on my breast only for one moment!” Her paleness still continued; she gazed on him, and, as he gently squeezed her hand, a slight pressure was given in return. He then drew her head over upon his shoulder, where it rather fell than leaned; a gush of tears came from her eyes, and the next moment, with sobbing hearts, they were encircled in each other's arms. From this first intoxicating draught of youthful love, they were startled by the voice of Mrs. O'Brien calling upon her daughter, and, at the same time, to their utter dismay, they observed the portly dame sailing, in her usual state, down towards the arbor, with an immense bunch of keys dangling from her side. “Oonagh, Miss--Miss Oonagh--where are you, Miss, Ma Colleen?--Here's a litther,” she proceeded, when Una appeared, “from Mrs. Fogarty, your school-misthress, to your fadher--statin' that she wants you to finish your Jiggraphy at the dancin', wid a new dancin'--teacher from _Dubling_. Why--Eah! what ails you, Miss, Ma Colleen? What the dickens wor you cryin' for?” “These nasty bees that stung me,” returned the girl. “Oh, for goodness sake, mother dear, don't come any farther, except you wish to have a whole hive upon you!” “Why, sure, they wouldn't sting any one that won't meddle wid them,” replied the mother in a kind of alarm. “The sorra pin they care, mother--don't come near them; I'll be in, by an' by. Where's my father?”