And then something marvellous happens that puts all his theories and regrets and fears to flight forever. Two soft arms--surely the softest in this wide glad world--steal round his neck; a gold-brown head is laid against his; a whisper reaches him. "You were very good to me about _that_!" says somebody, tremulously; and then two warm childish lips are laid on his, and Monica is in his arms. "I wonder what it was that frightened you?" says Desmond, in a tender whisper, drawing her down on his knees and enfolding her closely as though she were in form the child that verily at heart she still is. "Tell me." "I don't know." She has twined her bare beautiful arms around him, and is rubbing her cheek softly up and down against his in a fresh access of shyness. "I think you do, my dearest." "It was only this; that when I found I couldn't get away from you, I was frightened. It was very foolish of me, but whenever I read those stories about prisoners of war, and people being confined in dungeons, and that, I always know that if I were made a captive I should _die_." "But surely your lover's arms cannot be counted a prison, my life!" "Yes, if they held me when I wanted to get away." "But," reproachfully, "would you want to get away?" She hesitates, and, lifting one arm, runs her fingers coaxingly through the hair fashion has left him. "I don't want to go away now, at all events," she temporizes sweetly. Then, a moment later, "But I _must_, nevertheless. Come," nervously, "we have been here a long time, and Madam O'Connor will be angry with me; and besides," pityingly, "you have all that long drive home still before you." "I forgot all about the time," says Desmond, truthfully. "You are right: we must go in. Good-night again, my own." Without waiting for permission this time, he stoops and presses his lips to hers. An instant later he knows with a thrill of rapture that his kiss has been returned. CHAPTER XXIII. How Mary Browne makes confession, though not by creed a Romanist; and how those who receive it are far removed from being holy fathers!--Moreover, I would have you see there is more acting off the stage than on it. Monica's week at Aghyohillbeg is drawing to a close. The day has dawned that is to usher in at even the famous representation of "The School for Scandal," as given by Miss Fitzgerald, Captain Cobbett, etc. The whole house is topsy-turvy, no room being sacred from the actors and actresses (save the mark!), and all the servants are at their wit's end. There have been men down from the Gayety Theatre, Dublin, who have seen about the stage, and there have been other men from the village of Rossmoyne to help in the decoration of the ballroom, and between these two different sets of men an incessant war has been raging for many days.