love.

"Two months,--only two?--oh, it must be more," she says, with a pang.
Surely time ought to lessen the feeling of shame that overpowers her
whenever she thinks of that fatal day.

"So wearisome a time, my own?" asks he, reproachfully.

"No, it is not that. It is only----. Oh, Brian, that day you speak of,
when I was on that horrid hay-cart, did you--I mean--did I--that is--did
I look very ungraceful?"

The word she is dying to say is _dis_graceful, but she dares not.

"Ungraceful?"

"Yes. Terry says that when we were passing you that day I was--was,"
with a desperate rush, "kicking up my heels?"

She is trembling with shame and confusion. Crimson has sprung to her
cheeks, tears to her eyes.

"I don't believe a word of it," says Mr. Desmond, comprehending the
situation at last. "But, even supposing you were,--and, after all, that
is the sort of thing _every one_ does on a bundle of hay,"--as though
it is quite the customary thing for people generally to go round the
world seated on hay-carts,--"I didn't see you--that is, your heels, I
mean; I saw only your face,--the prettiest face in the world. How could
I look at anything else when I had once seen that?"

"Brian!" turning to him impetuously, and laying both her hands upon his
shoulders, "I do think you are the dearest fellow on earth."

"Oh, Monica! am I the dearest to you?" He has twined his arms round her
lissome figure, and is gazing anxiously into her eyes.

"Yes,--yes, _certainly_." And then, with a _naivete_ indescribable, and
with the utmost composure, she says,--

"I think I should like to give you a kiss!"

Is the blue dome still over his head, or has the sky fallen? The thing
he has been longing for, with an intensity not to be portrayed, ever
since their first meeting, but has not dared to even _hint_ at, is now
freely offered him, as though it were a thing of naught.

"Monica!" says her lover, the blood rushing to his face, "do you _mean_
it?" He tightens his clasp round her, yet still refrains from touching
the sweet lips so near his own. A feeling of honest manliness makes him
hesitate about accepting this great happiness, lest, indeed, he may have
misunderstood her. To him it is so great a boon she grants that he
hardly dares believe in its reality.

"Of course I do," says Miss Beresford, distinctly offended. "I--at
least, I _did_. I don't now. I always want to kiss people when I feel
fond of them; but you don't, evidently, or els