ere
the luckless Terence is crawling home in the fond belief that he is
defying all detection; whereupon Kit, with much presence of mind, looks
scrutinizingly in just the opposite direction. "It is somebody carrying
a gun. Good gracious! it is remarkably like Terence!"

At this Monica starts perceptibly, and lets the book she is holding fall
heavily to the ground.

"Perhaps it is a poacher," says Kit, brightly, her general reading being
deeply imbued with those characters.

"Perhaps," says Miss Priscilla, grimly. "Yet I feel sure it is your
brother!" Then she throws wide the sash, and calls aloud to the
culprit,--

"Terence! Terence, come here!"

At this, Mr. Beresford loses his presence of mind, and stands bolt
upright, gun in hand: the words have come to him distinctly across the
soft green grass, and fallen upon his ears with dismal distinctness.
Throwing up the sponge, he shoulders the offending weapon and marches
upon the foe with head erect and banners flying. Even if death is before
him (meaning the confiscation of the gun), he vows to himself he will
still die game.

"Really, it _is_ Terence," says Miss Penelope, as he approaches; "but
where _can_ he have got the gun?"

"I _know_!" says Miss Priscilla, whereupon Monica feels positively
faint.

Feeling she is growing very pale, she rises hurriedly from her seat,
and, going to the lower window, so stands that her face cannot be seen.

If Terence is cross-examined, will he tell a lie about the obtaining of
the gun? And if he does _not_, what will happen? what dreadful things
will not be said and done by Aunt Priscilla? Her breath comes quickly,
and with horror she finds herself devoutly hoping that Terence on this
occasion _will_ tell a lie.

By this time Terence has mounted the balcony, and is standing in a
somewhat defiant attitude before his inquisitors.

"Where have you been, Terence?" began Miss Priscilla.

"Shooting, aunt."

"And where did you get the gun, Terence?"

Silence.

"You certainly had no gun yesterday, and none this morning, as far as I
can judge. Now we want the truth from you, Terence, but we do not wish
to coerce you. Take time, and give us an answer your heart can approve."

Such an answer is evidently difficult to be procured at a moment's
notice, because Terence is still dumb.

"I am afraid your nature is not wholly free from deceit, Terence," says
Miss Priscilla, sadly. "This hesitation on your part speaks volumes; and