"'Beautiful as the blushing morn,'" says Miss Priscilla, quoting from some ancient birthday-book. "But, you see, even her beauty was powerless to save her from insult. From what we could learn, he absolutely refused to fulfil his marriage-contract with her. He was false to the oath he had sworn over our father's dying bed." Nothing can exceed the scorn and solemnity of Miss Priscilla's manner as she says all this. "And what did mother do?" asks Monica, curiously. "What _could_ she do, poor child? I have no doubt it went nigh to breaking her heart." "Her heart?" says Monica. "She suffered acutely. That we could see, or rather we had to guess it, as for days she kept her own chamber and would see no one, going out only when it was quite dusk for a solitary ramble. Ah! when sorrow afflicts the soul, there is no balm so great as solitude. Your poor mother took the whole affair dreadfully to heart." "You mean that she really _fretted_?" asks Monica, still in the same curious way, with her eyes fixed on her aunt. There is, indeed, so much unstudied surprise in her whole manner as might have produced a corresponding amount in the Misses Blake, had they noticed it. "Yes, my dear, of course. Dear, dear, dear! what a sad thing it all was! Well, now you understand all that it is needful you should, Monica," says Miss Penelope, with a glance at her sister, who really seems quite overcome. "So we will say no more about it. Only you can see for yourself how impossible it is for any of our blood to be on friendly terms with a Desmond." "They may not all be like _that_ Mr. Desmond," says Monica, timidly, coloring to her brow. "Yes, yes. Like father, like son; you know the old adage; and a nephew is as close a relation almost. We can know no one at Coole." "I would almost rather see you dead than intimate with one of the name," says Miss Priscilla, with sudden harshness. "I don't think we told Monica about the other guests at Aghyohillbeg," says Miss Penelope, hastily, with the kindly intention of changing the conversation. "A very pretty young woman came there about a week before your arrival, child, and is to remain, I believe, for some time. She is a widow, and young, and--by the bye, I wonder if she can be any relation to your friends in the South of France." "Why?" "Her name is Bohun, and----" "Not _Olga_ Bohun?" says Monica, springing to her feet. "A widow, you say, and young. Oh! auntie, if she only _might_ be Olga!" "Well, certainly she has a heathenish--I mean, a Russian--name like that," says Miss Priscilla. "She is a very little woman, with merry eyes, and she laughs always, and she has the prettiest, the most courteous manners. Quite a relief I found her, after the inanities of Bella Fitzgerald." "She is even smaller than I am. Yes, and her eyes do laugh!" says Monica, delight making her cheeks warm. "She is the prettiest thing. Ah! how happy I shall be if I may see her sometimes!"