"I am glad of it," she says, "because I do not want to dance at all; and I think you will not mind sitting with me and talking to me for a little while." "You remember me then?" he says, shifting his glass from one eye to the other, and telling himself she is as pretty as she is wise. "I think so," shyly, yet with a merry glance; "you are that Master O'Kelly, of Kelly Grove, county Antrim, who is the bright and shining light of the Junior Bar." "You do indeed know me," returns he, mildly. "'Thy modesty's a candle to thy merit,'" quotes she, wickedly, in a low tone. At this he smiles sadly (a luxury he rarely permits himself), and, taking up her hand, lays it on his arm. "Come," he says, "I will sit with you, and talk with you, when, and where, and for as long as you like. The longer the greater bliss for me. The spaciousness of these halls, fair madam, as doubtless you have perceived, gives wide scope for choice of seats. In which secluded bower will it please you to efface yourself?" Monica glances from one small room to the landing-place, and from the landing-place to the other small room beyond, and naturally hesitates. "There is another stairs besides the one we ascended," says Mr. Kelly. "I saw it when first I came: would _you_ like to see it too?" "I should indeed," says Monica, grateful for the hint, and, going with him, suddenly becomes aware of a staircase, leading goodness knows whither, upon the third step of which she seats herself, after a rapid glance around and upwards that tells her nothing, so mysterious are the workings of a barracks. Mr. Kelly seats himself beside her. "I suppose it is my mission to amuse you," he says, calmly, "as I dare not make love to you." "Why not?" says Monica, quite as calmly. "For one thing, you would not listen to me; and for another, I don't want my head broken." Monica smiles, more because it is her duty to than for any other reason, because after the smile comes a sigh. "I know few knights would tilt a lance for me," she says; and Kelly, glancing at her, feels a quick desire rise within him to restore sunshine to her perfect face. "One knight should be enough for any one, even the fairest ladye in the land," he says. "True; but what is to be for her who has none?" asks she, pathos in her eyes, but a smile upon her lips. "She must be a very perverse maiden who has _that_ story to tell," returns he; and then, seeing she has turned her face away from him, he goes on quietly,-- "You know every one here, of course." "Indeed, no. The very names of most are unknown to me. Tell me about them, if you will." "About that girl over there, for instance?" pointing to a dingy-looking girl in the distance, whose face is as like a button as it well can be, and whose general appearance may be expressed by the word "unclean."