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.

"Well we old women will go in at least," says Miss Penelope. "You two
children can coquet with the dew for a little while; but don't stay too
long, or sore throats will be the result."

"Yes, yes," says Miss Priscilla, following her sister. As she passes
Monica, she looks anxiously at the girl's little slight fragile figure
and her slender throat and half-bared arms.

"That dress is thin. Do not stay out too long. Take care of yourself, my
darling." She kisses her pretty niece, and then hurries on, as though
ashamed of this show of affection.

A little troubled