s hand, the drawing-room at Moyne, where the Misses Blake are
at present dozing.

"You shouldn't speak of them like that," says Monica; "it is very
ungrateful of you, when you know how kind they are, and how fond of
you."

"Well, I'm fond of them, too," says Terence, remorsefully but gloomily;
"and I'd be even fonder if they would only leave me alone. But they keep
such a look-out on a fellow that sometimes I feel like cutting the whole
thing and making a clean bolt of it."

"If you ran away you would soon be wishing yourself back again," says
Monica, scornfully. "You know you will have no money until you are
twenty-one. People pretend to be discontented, at times, with their
lives; but in the long run they generally acknowledge 'there is no place
like home.'"

"No, thank goodness, there isn't," says Terence, with moody fervor.
"I'll acknowledge it at once, without the run. To have frequent
repetitions of it would be more than human nature could endure. I have
known two homes already; I should think a third would be my death."

So saying, he shoulders the forbidden gun and marches off.

Monica and Kit, getting down from their elevated position, also pursue
their path, which leads in a contrary direction.

"Monica," says Kit, presently, slipping her slender brown fingers
through her sister's arm, "what did Terry mean just now, when he spoke
about some one being 'spoons' on you? Does that mean being in love with
you?"

No answer.

"Is Mr. Desmond, then, in love with you?"

No answer.

"_Is_ he?"

"Oh, Kit, how can I answer such a question as that?"

"In words, I suppose. _Is_ he in love with you?"

"I don't know," says Monica, in a troubled tone. "If I ever had a lover
before, I should _know_; but----"

"That means he is," says the astute Kit. "And I'm sure," with a little
loving squeeze of her arm, "I don't wonder at it."

"You must not say that," says Monica, earnestly. "Indeed, he said a few
_things_ to me, but that is nothing; and----"

"You think he _likes_ you?"

"Yes," reluctantly.

"I believe he adores the very ground you walk on."

"Oh, no, indeed."

"If you say that, he _isn't_ a real lover. A real one, to my mind, ought
to be ready and willing to kiss the impressions your heels may make in
the earth."

"That would be the act of a fool; and Mr. Desmond is not a fool."

"Ergo, not a lover. And yet I think he is _yours_. Monica," coaxingly,
"did he say any pretty things to you?"