esence she has
inadvertently declared to be hateful to her, because presently he says,
simply, if a little warmly,--

"There is no use in our quarreling like this. I won't give you up
without a further struggle, to _any_ man. So we may as well have it out
now. Do you care for that--for Ryde?"

"If you had asked me that before,--sensibly,--you might have avoided
making an exhibition of yourself and saying many rude things. I don't in
the least mind telling you," says Miss Beresford, coldly, "that I _can't
bear_ him."

"Oh, Monica! is this _true_?" asks he, in an agony of hope.

"Quite true. But you don't deserve I should say it."

"My darling! My 'one thing bright' in all this hateful world! Oh!"
throwing up his head with an impatient gesture, "I have been so wretched
all this evening! I have suffered the tortures of the----"

"Now, you musn't say naughty words," interrupts she, with an adorable
smile. "You are glad I have forgiven you?"

This is how she puts it, and he is only too content to be friends with
her on any terms, to show further fight.

"_More_ than glad."

"And you will promise me never to be jealous again?"

This is a bitter pill, considering his former declaration that jealousy
and he had nothing to do with each other; but he swallows it bravely.

"Never. And you--you will never again give me cause, darling, will you?"

"I gave you no cause now," says the darling, shaking her pretty head
obstinately. And he doesn't dare contradict her. "You behaved really
badly," she goes on, reproachfully, "and at such a time, too,--just when
I was dying to tell you _such_ good news."

"Good?--your aunts--" eagerly, "have relented--they----"

"Oh, no! oh, _dear_, no!" says Miss Beresford. "They are harder than
ever against you. Adamant is a _sponge_ in comparison with them. It
isn't that; but Madam O'Connor has asked me to go and stay with her next
Monday for a week!--there!"

"And me too?"

"N--o. Aunt Priscilla made it a condition with regard to my going that
you shouldn't be there."

"The----And Madam O'Connor gave in to such abominable tyranny?"

"Without a murmur."

"I thought she had a soul above that sort of thing," says Mr. Desmond,
with disgust. "But they are all alike."

"Who?--women?"

"Yes."

"You mean to tell me I am like Aunt Priscilla and Madam O'Connor?"

"_Old_ women, I mean," with anxious haste, seeing a cloud descending
upon the brow of his beloved.

"Oh!"

"And, after