with a vengeance! Monica, at least promise me you won't be civil to
him."

"To your uncle?"

"Nonsense! You know I mean Ryde."

"I can't be rude to him."

"You can. Why not? It will keep him from calling again."

No answer.

"Oh, I daresay you _want_ him to call again," says Desmond, angrily.

At this moment, the gates of Moyne being in sight, and those of Coole
long passed, Kit suddenly appears on the top of a high stone wall, and
calls gayly to Desmond to come and help her alight.

"And now go away too," she says: "you are forbidden goods, you know, and
we must not be seen talking to you, under pain of death."

"Good-by," says Desmond, with alacrity, who is, in truth, sulky, and
undesirous of further parley with his beloved. "Good-by, Miss
Beresford."

"Good-by," says Monica, shortly.

"We shall see you again soon, no doubt," says Kit, kindly, in her clear,
sweet treble.

"I think it very improbable," returns he, raising his hat gravely and
taking his departure.

"Now, what _have_ you been saying to that wretched young man, Monica?"
says Kit, severely, standing still in the middle of the road, the better
to bring her sister beneath the majesty of her eye.

"Nothing. Nothing that any reasonable being could object to," declares
Monica, with such an amount of vigor as startles Kit. "But of all the
ill-tempered, bearish, detestable men I ever met in my life, _he is the
worst_."

Which unlooked for explosion from the gentle Monica has the effect of
silencing Kit for the remainder of the walk.

CHAPTER XV.

How the Misses Blake discover a gigantic fraud--How Terence is again
arraigned, and brought before the Court on a charge of
duplicity--and how he is nearly committed for contempt.

Reaching home, they find the atmosphere there decidedly clouded. Miss
Priscilla, who has returned from her drive just a moment before, is
standing in the hall, gazing with a stern countenance upon the
old-fashioned eight-day clock, in which two or three people might be
safely stowed away. The clock regards her not at all, but ticks on
loudly with a sort of exasperating obstinacy, as though determined to
remind every one of the flight of time.

"Who has wound this clock?" demands Miss Priscilla, in an awful tone.
With a thrill of thankfulness the girls feel they can answer truthfully,
"Not I."

"Dear me!" says Miss Penelope, timidly, advancing from the morning-room;
"I did. You were so long out, Priscil