s a breech-loader, too; none of your
old-fashioned things, mind you, but a reg'lar good one. I'll tell you
who lent it to me, if you'll promise not to peach."

"We won't," says Kit, who is burning with curiosity.

"Guess, then."

"Bob Warren?" says Monica. Bob Warren is the rector's son, and is much
at Moyne.

"Not likely! Pegs above _him_. Well, I'll tell you. It's that fellow
that's spoons on you,"--with all a brother's perspicacity,--"the fellow
who saw us on the hay-cart,"--Monica writhes inwardly,--"Desmond, you
know!"

"The enemy's nephew?" asks Kit, in a thrilling tone, that bespeaks
delight and a malicious expectation of breakers ahead.

"Yes. I was talking to him yesterday, early in the day, at Madam
O'Connor's; and he asked me was I your brother, Monica, to which I
pleaded guilty, though," with a grin, "I'd have got out of it if I
could; and then he began to talk about shooting, and said I might knock
over any rabbits I liked in Coole. I told him I had no gun, so he
offered to lend me one. I thought it was awfully jolly of him,
considering I was an utter stranger, and that; but he looks a real good
sort. He sent over the gun this morning by a boy, and I have had it
hidden in the stable until now. I thought I'd never get out of that
beastly garden this evening."

"Oh, Terence, you shouldn't have taken the gun from him," says Monica,
flushing. "Just think what Aunt Priscilla would say if she heard of it.
You know how determined she is that we shall have no intercourse with
the Desmonds."

"Stuff and nonsense!" says Mr. Beresford. "I never heard such a row as
they are forever making about simply _nothing_. Why, it's quite a
common thing to jilt a girl, nowadays. I'd do it myself in a minute."

"You won't have time," says Kit, contemptuously. "She--whoever she may
be--will be sure to jilt _you_ first."

"Look here," says Terence, eyeing his younger sister with much disfavor;
"you're getting so precious sharp, you know, that I should think
there'll be a conflagration on the Liffey before long; and I should
think, too, that an outraged nation would be sure to fling the cause of
it into the flames. So take care."

"Terence, you ought to send that gun back _at once_," says Monica.

"Perhaps I ought, but certainly I shan't," says Terence, genially. "And
if I were you," politely, "I wouldn't make an ass of myself. There is
quite enough of that sort of thing going on up there," indicating, by a
wave of hi