"I told you how it would be," says Kit, in a nervous whisper, taking almost a bit out of poor Monica's arm in her excitement. "Oh, when I have a lover I hope he will be like _he_." Her grammar has gone after her nerve. Monica is silent: some color has gone from her cheeks, and her heart is beating faster. It is her very first _affaire_, so we must forgive her: a little frightened shadow has fallen into her eyes, and altogether she looks a shade younger than usual: she is troubled in spirit, and inclined to find fault with the general management of things. After all, she might as well have gone to the river this evening for what good her abstinence has done her: the poverty of our strength to conquer faith and the immutability of its decrees fills her with consternation and a fretful desire for freedom. Yet above and beyond all these vain imaginings is a gladness and a pride that her power is strong enough to draw her lover to her side in spite of all difficulties. The bareheaded young man has come up to her by this time, and is holding out his hand: silently she lays her own in it, and colors treacherously as his fingers close on hers in a close, tender, and possessive fashion. "I found the river too chilly," he says, smiling, "so I came on here. Having been unsuccessful all the afternoon and morning, I _knew_ I should find you _now_." This might be hieroglyphics to others, but is certainly English to her, however she may pretend otherwise; she doesn't pretend much, to do her justice. "This is your sister?" goes on Desmond, looking at Kit, who is regarding him with an eye that is quite a "piercer." "Yes," says Monica. "Kit, this is Mr. Desmond." "I know that," says this _enfant terrible_, still fixing him with a glance of calm and searching scrutiny that is well calculated to disconcert even a bolder man. Then all at once her mind seems made up, and, coming forward, she holds out her hand, and says, "How d'ye do?" to him, with a sudden, rare sweet smile that convinces him at once of her sisterhood to Monica. "We are friends?" he says, being attracted to the child for her own grace alone, as well as for the charm of her relationship to the pale snowdrop of a girl beside her. "Yes. If you prove true to my Monica." "Oh, Kit!" says Monica, deeply shocked; but Kit pays no heed, her eyes being fastened gravely upon the man before her. He is quite as grave as she is. "If our friendship depends upon that, it will be a lasting one," he says, quietly. "My whole life is at your sister's service." Something in his tones touches Monica: slowly she lifts her eyes until they reach his. "I wish, I _wish_ you would not persist in this," she says, sadly. "But why? To think of you is my chiefest joy. Do you forbid me to be happy?" "No--but--"