by the caress, Monica moves mechanically down the path
that leads towards the meadows and the river, followed by Kit. By this
time the latter is in full possession of all that happened
yesterday,--at least so much of it as relates to Monica's acquaintance
with Mr. Desmond (minus the tender passages), his uncle's encounter with
her aunts, and Brian's subsequent dismissal. Indeed, so much has
transpired in the telling of all this that Kit, who is a shrewd child,
has come to the just conclusion that the young Mr. Desmond is in love
with her Monica!

Strange to say, she is not annoyed at his presumption, but rather
pleased at it,--he being the first live lover she has ever come in
contact with, and therefore interesting in no small degree.

Now, as she follows her sister down the flowery pathway, her mind is
full of romance, pure and sweet and great with chivalry, as a child's
would be. But Monica is sad and taciturn. Her mind misgives her,
conscience pricks her, her soul is disquieted within her.

What was it she had promised Aunt Priscilla yesterday? Aunt Priscilla
had said, "For the future you will remember this?" and she had answered,
"Yes."

But how can she forget? It was a foolish promise, for who has got a
memory under control?

Of course, Aunt Priscilla had meant her to understand that she was never
to speak to Mr. Desmond again, and she had given her promise in the
spirit. And of course she would be obedient; she would at least so far
obey that she would not be the first to speak to him, nor would she seek
him--nor----But why, then, is she going to the river? Is it because the
evening is so fine, or is there no lurking hope of----

And, after all, what certainty is there that--that--any one will be at
the river at this hour? And even if they should be, why need she speak
to him? she can be silent; but if he speaks to her, what then? Can she
refuse to answer?

Her mind is as a boat upon a troubled sea, tossed here and there; but
by and by the wind goes down, and the staunch boat is righted, and turns
its bow toward home.

"Kit, do not let us go to the river to-night," she says, turning to face
her sister in the narrow path.

"But why? It is so warm and light, and such a little way!"

"You have been often there. Let us turn down this side of the meadow,
and see where it will lead to."

That it leads directly away from Coole there cannot be the least doubt;
and the little martyr treading the ground she