"People generally _do_ know what they are laughing at," contends he, seriously. "Well, _I_ don't," returns she, with great spirit. "Of course not, if you _say_ so; but," with suppressed wrath, "I don't myself think there is anything provocative of mirth in the thought of a fellow wasting hour after hour upon a lonely stream in the insane but honest hope of seeing somebody who _wouldn't_ come. Of course in your eyes the fellow was a fool to do it; but--but if I were the girl I wouldn't laugh at him for it." Silence. Monica's eyes are bent upon the ground; her face is averted; but there is something about her attitude that compels Mr. Desmond to believe she is sorry for her untimely laughter; and thinking this breeds hatred towards himself for having caused this sorrow and makes him accuse himself of basest ill temper. "I beg your pardon!" he says, in a contrite tone; "I shouldn't have spoken to you like that. I lost my temper most absurdly and must apologize to you for it now. It was ridiculous of me to suppose you would ever come again to the river; but one hopes against hope. Yet, as Feltham tells us, 'he that hopes too much shall deceive himself at last:' that was my fate, you see. And you never once thought of coming, did you? You were quite right." "No, I was quite wrong; but--but--_you_ are quite wrong too in _one_ way," still with her eyes downturned. "By what right did I expect you? I was a presumptuous fool and got just what I deserved." "You were not a fool," exclaims she, quickly; and then, with a little impulsive gesture, she draws herself up and looks him fair in the eyes. "If I had known you were there," she says, bravely, though evidently frightened at her own temerity, "I--I--am almost sure _I_ should have been there too!" "No! would you really?" says Desmond, eagerly. Then follows a rather prolonged silence. Not an awkward one, but certainly a silence fraught with danger to both. There is no greater friend to Cupid than an unsought silence such as this. At last it is broken. "What lovely roses there are in this garden!" says Desmond, pointing to a bush of glowing beauty near him. "Are there not?" She has taken off a long white glove, so that one hand and arm are bare. The hand is particularly small and finely shaped, the nails on it are a picture in themselves; the arm is slight and childish, but rounded and very fair. Breaking a rose from the tree indicated, she examines it lovingly, and then, lifting it to his face, as though desirous of sympathy, says,-- "Is it not sweet?"