"About your rings, you mean. I never look at them that I don't begin this sort of thing." Here, seeing an excellent opportunity for it, he takes her hand in his. "This little turquoise went to market, this little pearl stayed at home, this little emerald got some--er--cheese----" "No, it wasn't," hastily. "It was roast beef." "So it was. Better than cheese, any day. How stupid of me! I might have known an emerald--I mean a pig--wouldn't like cheese." "I don't suppose it would like roast beef a bit better," says Monica; and then her lips part and she bursts into a merry laugh at the absurdity of the thing. She is such a child still that she finds the keenest enjoyment in it. "Never mind," with dignity, "and permit me to tell you, Miss Beresford, that open ridicule is rude. To continue: _this_ little pearl got none, and this little plain gold ring got--he got--what on earth did the little plain gold pig--I mean, ring--get?" "_Nothing._ Just what _you_ ought to get for such a badly-told story. He only cried, 'Wee.'" "Oh, no, indeed. He shan't cry at all. I won't have tears connected with you in any way." She glances up at him with eyes half shy, half pleased, and with the prettiest dawning smile upon her lips. He clasps the slender fingers closer, as though loath to part with them, and yet his tale has come to a climax. "If I have told my story so badly, perhaps I had better tell it all over again," he says, with a base assumption of virtuous regret. "No. I would not give you that trouble for the world," she says, mischievously, and then the dawning smile widens, brightens into something indescribable, but perfect. "Oh, Monica, I do think you are the sweetest thing on earth," says the young man, with sudden fervid passion; and then all at once, and for the first time, he puts out his arms impulsively and draws her to him. She colors,--still smiling, however,--and after a brief hesitation, moves slowly but decidedly back from him. "You don't _hate_ me to touch you, do you?" asks he, rather hurt. "Oh, no, indeed!" hurriedly. "Only----" "Only what, darling?" "I hardly know what," she answers, looking bewildered. "Perhaps because it is all so strange. Why should you love _me_ better than any one?--and yet you do," anxiously, "don't you?" The innocently-expressed anxiety makes his heart glad. "I adore you," he says, fervently; and then, "Did no one ever place his arm round you _before_, Monica?" He finds a difficulty in even asking this.