"Go, sir," says Miss Priscilla, presently, without lifting her eyes. There is so much gentleness in her tone that the young man is emboldened to ask a question. "You will permit me to come to-morrow, to--to--plead my cause?" he says, anxiously. Miss Priscilla hesitates, and a pang of apprehension rushes through his heart. He is almost in despair, when Miss Penelope's voice breaks the oppressive silence. "Yes. Come to-morrow," she says, pressing Miss Priscilla's arm. "To-day we are too tired, too upset. To-morrow let it be." "I thank you madam," says Desmond, humbly; and then he turns to go, but still lingers, with grieved eyes fixed on Monica. "Monica, you will give me one parting word?" he says, at last, as though the petition is wrung from him. Still holding Miss Priscilla's hand, she turns to him, and, raising her other arm, places it softly round his neck. Holding them both thus, she seems the embodiment of the spirit that must in the end unite them. Her position compels her to throw back her head a little, and she smiles at him, a sad little smile, but bright with love and trust. "Not a _parting_ word," she says, with a sweetness so grave as to be almost solemn. "You will be true to me?" says Desmond, reckless of listeners. He has his arms round her, and is waiting for her answer with a pale, earnest face. Something in the whole scene touches the two kindly old maids with a sense of tender reverence. "Until my death," says the girl, with slow distinctness, laying her head against the gray sleeve of his coat. A great wave of color--born of emotion and love that is stronger than the grave--sweeps over his face. He stoops and lays his lips on hers. When he is gone, Monica turns suddenly upon Miss Priscilla. "Do not say a word to me!" she cries, feverishly; "I could not bear it--_now_. I may have done wrong, but I am not sorry for it. I love him. That should explain everything to you; it means _all_ to me! Nothing can alter that! And I will have nothing said,--nothing; and----" "Nothing shall be said, dear child," says Miss Penelope, gently. "Everything shall be as you wish with regard to us. Can you not trust us to spare you where we _can_?" "I am ungrateful. I must go and think it all out," says Monica, stoutly, pressing her hands against her head. She turns away. A little cry breaks from Miss Priscilla. "Oh! not without kissing us _too_, Monica!" she says, in a broken voice, holding out her arms to her niece. Monica throws herself into them. * * * * * Long and eager is the discussion that follows on the girl's disappearance. The two Misses Blake, side by side, argue (with what they erroneously term dispassionate calmness) the case just laid before them. "I don't know what is to be done," says Miss Priscilla, at length: "all I do know is that, for her sake, consent will be impossible."