"Hush!" whispers the embryo husband, giving her a little shake. But he is laughing, too. "I don't feel as if I honored you a bit," says Miss Beresford; "and as to the 'obey,' I certainly shan't do that." "As if I should ask you!" says Desmond. "But what of the _love_, sweetheart?" "Why, as it is yours, you ought to be the one to answer _that_ question," retorts she, prettily, a warm flush dyeing her face. "But why must you leave me?" she says, presently. "The steward has written to me once or twice. Tenants nowadays are so troublesome. Of course I could let the whole thing slide, and the property go to the dogs; but no man has a right to do that. I am talking of my own place now, you understand,--_yours_, as it will be soon, I hope." "And where is--_our_ place?" The hesitation is adorable, but still more adorable are the smile and blush that accompany it. "In Westmeath," says Brian, when some necessary preliminaries have been gone through. "I hope you will like it. It is far prettier than Coole in every way." "And I think Coole lovely, what I've seen of it," says Monica, sweetly. Here the lamp that has hitherto been lighting the corridor, thinking, doubtless (and very reasonably, too), that it has done its duty long enough, flickers, and goes out. But no darkness follows its defection. Through the far window a pale burst of light rushes, illumining in a cold and ghostly manner the spot on which they stand. "The meek-eyed morn, mother of dews," has come, and night has slipped away abashed, with covered front. Together they move to the window and look out upon the awakening world; and, even as they gaze enraptured at its fairness, the sun shoots up from yonder hill, and a great blaze of glory is abroad. "Over the spangled grass Swept the swift footsteps of the lovely light, Turning the tears of Night to joyous gems." "Oh, we have delayed too long," says Monica, with a touch of awe engendered by the marvellous and mystic beauty of the hour. "Good-night, good-night!" "Nay, rather a fair good-morrow, my sweet love," says Desmond, straining her to his heart. CHAPTER XXV. How The Desmond's mind is harrassed by a gentle maiden and two ungentle roughs; and how the Land League shows him a delicate attention. "By the by," says old Mr. Desmond, looking at his nephew across the remains of the dessert, "You've been a good deal at Aghyohillbeg of late: why?" It is next evening, and, Monica being at Moyne and inaccessible, Brian is at Coole. Mr. Kelly is walking up and down on the gravelled walk outside, smoking a cigar. "Because Miss Beresford was there," says Brian, breaking a grape languidly from the bunch he holds in his hand. "_What!_" says Mr. Desmond, facing him. "Because Miss Beresford was there." "What am I to understand by that?" "That she was there, I suppose," says Brian, laughing, "and that I am head over ears in love with her."