neighbors, are strolling through the sweet antiquated gardens of
Moyne, hedged with yews fantastically cut. The roses, white and red and
yellow, are nodding their heads lazily, bowing and courtesying to the
passing breeze. The stocks and mignonette are filling the air with
perfume. Tall lilies are smiling from distant corners, and the little
merry burn, tumbling over its gray boulders through the garden, is
singing a loud and happy song, in which the birds in the trees above
join heartily.

The lazy hum of many insects makes one feel even more perceptibly how
drowsy-sweet is all the summer air.

Mrs. Bohun has now flitted away with Monica, who in her white gown looks
the prettiest flower of all, in this "wilderness of sweets," with the
tall, infatuated Ryde and handsome young Ronayne in their train. Mrs.
Bohun, who is in one of her most mischievous moods to-day, has taken it
into her head to snub Lord Rossmoyne and be all that is of the sweetest
to Ulic Ronayne, a proceeding her cousin, Mrs. Herrick, regards with
dismay.

Not so, however, does Bella Fitzgerald regard it. She, tall, and with a
would-be stately air, walks through the grounds at Lord Rossmoyne's
side, to whom she has attached herself, and who, _faute de mieux_, makes
himself as agreeable as he can to her, considering how he is inwardly
raging at what he is pleased to term Olga's disgraceful behavior.

Miss Priscilla has now been seized upon by Madam O'Connor and carried
off for a private confab.

"And you really _must_ let her come to us for a week, my dear," says
Madam O'Connor, in her fine rich brogue. "Yes, now, really I want her.
It will be quite a favor. I can't withstand a pretty face, as you well
know 'tis a weakness of mine, my dear, and she is really a pearl. Olga
Bohun is talking of getting up tableaux or some such nonsense, and she
wants your pretty child to help us."

"I should like her to go to you. It is very kind of you," says Miss
Priscilla, but with unmistakable hesitation.

"Now, what is it? Out with it, Priscilla!" says Madam O'Connor, bluntly.

Miss Priscilla struggles with herself for yet another minute, and then
says, quickly,--

"That young man Desmond,--will _he_ be staying in your house?"

"Not if you object, my dear," says Mrs. O'Connor, kindly; "though I do
think it is a pity to thwart that affair. He is as nice and as pleasant
a young fellow as I know, and would make a jewel of a husband; and
money--say what you lik