Then he turns aside, and, having brought his boat to her side of the fence, holds out to her his hand. As he does this he keeps his eyes bent upon the ground, as though determined to let her know his penance has already begun. "I am not in the boat yet," says Monica, with a quaint little smile, laying her palm on his. Whereupon he looks at her again; and then, as their eyes meet, they both laugh joyously, as youth will when it meets youth. Lightly she steps into his boat, and slowly, lazily, he rows her down the little river,--flower-clad on either bank,--letting the boat drift almost at its own sweet will. The willows, drooping towards the water's edge, woo them as they pass; the foolish weeds would hold them in embrace; the broad flag-flowers would fain entwine them. But they, though loving them, go by them, thinking their own thoughts, and wondering vaguely at the beauty of the "Starry river-buds among the sedge, And floating water-lilies broad and bright, * * * * * And bulrushes, and reeds of such deep green As soothes the dazzled eye with sober sheen." So far silence has been scrupulously kept. Not a word has been spoken since they left the bank, not a look exchanged. Monica is letting her little slender fingers trail through the water and the flat leaves of the lilies. He, with his coat off, is pretending to row, but in reality is letting his body grow subservient to his mind. He has even adhered honorably to his promise not to look at her, and is still mentally ambitious about being true to his word in this respect, when an exclamation from her puts an end to all things. "Oh! look at _that_ lily!" she says, excitedly. "Was there ever such a beauty? If you will row a little more to the right, I am sure I shall be able to get it." "Don't stir. I'll get it," returns he, grateful to the lily for this break in their programme; and presently the floating prize is secured, and he lays it, wet and dripping, in her outstretched hands. "After all, you see, you broke your promise," she says, a moment later, most ungratefully, glancing up at him coquettishly from under her long lashes. "But who made me do it?" asks he, reproachfully, whereupon she laughs and reddens. "I never confess," she says, shaking her pretty head; "and after all--do you know?--I am rather glad you spoke to me, because, though I like being quite by myself at times, still I _hate_ silence when any one is with me." "So do I," says her companion, with the utmost cheerfulness. "I think," leaning towards him with a friendly smile, "I cannot do better than begin our acquaintance by telling you my name. It is Monica Beresford." "Monica," lingering over it lovingly; "a beautiful name, I think. I think, too, it suits you. Mine is not to be compared to yours; but, such as it is, I give it you!" He throws a card into her lap.