"Oh, no! oh, _dear_, no!" says Miss Beresford. "They are harder than ever against you. Adamant is a _sponge_ in comparison with them. It isn't that; but Madam O'Connor has asked me to go and stay with her next Monday for a week!--there!" "And me too?" "N--o. Aunt Priscilla made it a condition with regard to my going that you shouldn't be there." "The----And Madam O'Connor gave in to such abominable tyranny?" "Without a murmur." "I thought she had a soul above that sort of thing," says Mr. Desmond, with disgust. "But they are all alike." "Who?--women?" "Yes." "You mean to tell me I am like Aunt Priscilla and Madam O'Connor?" "_Old_ women, I mean," with anxious haste, seeing a cloud descending upon the brow of his beloved. "Oh!" "And, after all, it _is_ good news," says Brian, brightening, "because though I can't stop in the house for the week, still there is nothing to prevent my riding over there every one of the seven days." "That's just what I thought," says Monica, ingenuously, with a sweet little blush. "Ah! you wished for me, then?" She refuses to answer this in any more direct manner than her eyes afford, but says, quickly, doubtfully,-- "It won't be deceiving Aunt Priscilla, your coming there to visit, will it? She must know she cannot compel Madam O'Connor to forbid you the house. And she knows perfectly you are an intimate friend of hers." "Of course she does. She is a regular old tyrant,--a Bluebeard in petticoats; but----" "No, no; you must not abuse her," says Monica: so he becomes silent. She is standing very close to the trunk of the old beech, half leaning against it upon one arm which is slightly raised. She has no gloves, but long white mittens that reach above her elbow to where the sleeves of her gown join them. Through the little holes in the pattern of these kindly mittens her white arms can be seen gleaming like snow beneath the faint rays of the early moon. With one hand she is playing some imaginary air upon the tree's bark. As she so plays, tiny sparkles from her rings attract his notice. "Those five little rings," says Desmond, idly, "always remind me of the five little pigs that went to market,--I don't know why." "They didn't all go to market," demurely. "One of them, I _know_, stayed at home." "So he did. I remember now. Somehow it makes me feel like a boy again." "Then, according to Hood, you must be nearer heaven than you were a moment ago." "I couldn't," says Desmond, turning, and looking into her beautiful eyes. "My heaven has been near me for the last half-hour." If he had said _hour_ he would have been closer to the truth. A soft, lovely crimson creeps into her cheeks, and her eyes fall before his for a moment. Then she laughs,--a gay, mirthful laugh, that somehow puts sentiment to flight. "Go on about your little pigs," she says, glancing at him with coquettish mirth.