"I hope so, I _hope_ so," says Miss Priscilla, doubtfully, "but there's a common cast about it. It reminds me of groundsel. Corney, whatever you do, don't grow careless." "Faix, I'm too ould a hand for that, miss," says Corney. "But, to tell the truth, I think myself, now, not to desaive ye, that the leaf ye mentioned is uncommon like the groundsel. You ought to be proud of yer eyes, Miss Priscilla; they're as clear as they were twinty years ago." Greatly mollified by this compliment, Miss Priscilla declines to scold any more, and, the groundsel forgotten, moves onward to a smooth piece of sward on which a cartload of large white stones from the seashore has been ruthlessly thrown. "What is this?" she says, indignantly, eying the stones with much disfavor. "Corney, come here! Who flung those stones down on my green grass?" "The rector, miss. He sent his man wid a load of 'em, and 'tis there they left 'em." "A most unwarrantable proceeding!" says Miss Priscilla, who is in her managing mood. "What did Mr. Warren mean by that?" "Don't you think it was kind of him to draw them for our rookery, my dear Priscilla?" says Miss Penelope, suggestively. "No, I don't," says Miss Priscilla. "To bring cartloads of nasty large stones and fling them down upon my velvet grass on which I pride myself (though _you_ may think nothing of it, Penelope) is _not_ kind. I must say it was anything but nice,--anything but gentlemanly." "My dear, he is quite a gentleman, and a very good man." "That may be. I suppose I am not so uncharitable as to be rebuked for every little word; but to go about the country destroying people's good grass, for which I paid a shilling a pound, is _not_ gentlemanly. Katherine, what are you laughing at?" "At the stones," says Kit. "There is nothing to laugh at in a stone. Don't be silly, Katherine. I wonder, Monica, you don't make it the business of your life to instil some sense into that child. The idea of standing still to laugh at a _stone_." "Better do that than stand still to _cry_ at it," says the younger Miss Beresford, rebelliously. Providentially, the remark is unheard; and Monica, scenting battle in the breeze, says, hastily,-- "Do you remember the roses at Aghyohillbeg, auntie? Well, I don't think any of them were as fine as this," pointing to a magnificent blossom near her. It is the truth, and it pleases Miss Priscilla mightily, she having a passion for her roses. And so peace is once more restored. "It grows chilly," says Miss Penelope, presently. "Yes; let us all go in," says Miss Priscilla. "Oh, not yet, auntie; it is quite lovely yet," says Monica, earnestly. She cannot go in yet, not _yet_; the evening is still young, and--and she would like _so_ much to go down to the river, if only for a moment. All this she says guiltily to herself.