The grass is bending still with the weight of the past rain, and a plaintive dripping from the trees can be heard,--a refreshing sound that lessens the sense of heat. The small birds stir cosily in their nests, and now and then a drowsy note breaks from one or another; a faint mist, white and intangible, rises from the hills, spreading from field to sky, until "The earth, with heaven mingled, in the shadowy twilight lay, And the white sails seemed like spectres in a cloud-land far away." "Ah! you don't like me to say that," says Desmond, unappeased by the beauty of the growing night; "but----" "Do not say another word," says Monica, imperiously. The moon is rising slowly--slowly,--and so, by the by, is her temper. "I forbid you. Here," throwing to him his coat; "I think I have before remarked that the rain is _quite_ over. I am sorry I ever touched anything belonging to you." Desmond having received the coat, and put himself into it once more, silence ensues. It does, perhaps, strike him as a hopeful sign that she shows no haste to return home and so rid herself of a presence she has inadvertently declared to be hateful to her, because presently he says, simply, if a little warmly,-- "There is no use in our quarreling like this. I won't give you up without a further struggle, to _any_ man. So we may as well have it out now. Do you care for that--for Ryde?" "If you had asked me that before,--sensibly,--you might have avoided making an exhibition of yourself and saying many rude things. I don't in the least mind telling you," says Miss Beresford, coldly, "that I _can't bear_ him." "Oh, Monica! is this _true_?" asks he, in an agony of hope. "Quite true. But you don't deserve I should say it." "My darling! My 'one thing bright' in all this hateful world! Oh!" throwing up his head with an impatient gesture, "I have been so wretched all this evening! I have suffered the tortures of the----" "Now, you musn't say naughty words," interrupts she, with an adorable smile. "You are glad I have forgiven you?" This is how she puts it, and he is only too content to be friends with her on any terms, to show further fight. "_More_ than glad." "And you will promise me never to be jealous again?" This is a bitter pill, considering his former declaration that jealousy and he had nothing to do with each other; but he swallows it bravely. "Never. And you--you will never again give me cause, darling, will you?" "I gave you no cause now," says the darling, shaking her pretty head obstinately. And he doesn't dare contradict her. "You behaved really badly," she goes on, reproachfully, "and at such a time, too,--just when I was dying to tell you _such_ good news." "Good?--your aunts--" eagerly, "have relented--they----"