would not, feels with an
additional pang of disappointment that the fulfilment of her duty does
not carry with it the thrill of rapture that ought to suffuse her soul.
No, not the faintest touch of satisfaction at her own heroism comes to
lighten the bitter regret she is enduring as she turns her back
deliberately on the river and its chances. She feels only sorrow, and
the fear that _some one_ will think her hard-hearted, and she could cry
a little, but for Kit and shame's sake.

"Monica, who is that?" exclaims Kit, suddenly, staring over the high
bank, beside which they are walking, into the field beyond. Following
her glance, Monica sees a crouching figure on the other side of this
bank, but lower down, stealing cautiously, noiselessly, towards them, as
though bent on secret murder. A second glance betrays the fact that it
is Terence, with--yes, most positively with a _gun_!

"Where on earth did he get it?" says Kit; and, unable to contain her
curiosity any longer, she scrambles up the bank, and calls out, "Terry,
here we are! Come here! Where did you get it?" at the top of her fresh
young lungs.

As she does so, a little gray object, hitherto unseen by her, springs
from among some green stuffs, and, scudding across the field into the
woods of Coole beyond, is in a moment lost to view.

"Oh, _bother_!" cries Terry, literally dancing with rage; "I wouldn't
_doubt_ you to make that row just when I was going to fire. I wish to
goodness you girls would stay at home, and not come interfering with a
fellow's sport. You are always turning up at the wrong moment, and just
when you're not wanted!--indeed you _ever are_!"

These elegant and complimentary remarks he hurls at their heads, as
though with the wish to annihilate them. But they haven't the faintest
effect: the Misses Beresford are too well accustomed to his eloquence to
be dismayed by it. They treat it, indeed, as a matter of course, and so
continue their inquiries uncrushed.

"Terry, where _did_ you get this gun?" asks Monica, as breathless with
surprise as Kit. "Is it"--fearfully--"_loaded_? Oh! don't!--don't point
it this way! It will surely go off and kill somebody."

Here she misses her footing and slips off the high bank, disappearing
entirely from view, only to reappear again presently, flushed but
uninjured.

"What a lovely gun!" says Kit, admiringly.

"Isn't it?" says Terence, forgetting his bad temper in his anxiety to
exhibit his treasure. "It'