ing, too.

"I don't feel as if I honored you a bit," says Miss Beresford; "and as
to the 'obey,' I certainly shan't do that."

"As if I should ask you!" says Desmond. "But what of the _love_,
sweetheart?"

"Why, as it is yours, you ought to be the one to answer _that_
question," retorts she, prettily, a warm flush dyeing her face.

"But why must you leave me?" she says, presently.

"The steward has written to me once or twice. Tenants nowadays are so
troublesome. Of course I could let the whole thing slide, and the
property go to the dogs; but no man has a right to do that. I am talking
of my own place now, you understand,--_yours_, as it will be soon, I
hope."

"And where is--_our_ place?"

The hesitation is adorable, but still more adorable are the smile and
blush that accompany it.

"In Westmeath," says Brian, when some necessary preliminaries have been
gone through. "I hope you will like it. It is far prettier than Coole in
every way."

"And I think Coole lovely, what I've seen of it," says Monica, sweetly.

Here the lamp that has hitherto been lighting the corridor, thinking,
doubtless (and very reasonably, too), that it has done its duty long
enough, flickers, and goes out. But no darkness follows its defection.
Through the far window a pale burst of light rushes, illumining in a
cold and ghostly manner the spot on which they stand. "The meek-eyed
morn, mother of dews," has come, and night has slipped away abashed,
with covered front.

Together they move to the window and look out upon the awakening world;
and, even as they gaze enraptured at its fairness, the sun shoots up
from yonder hill, and a great blaze of glory is abroad.

"Over the spangled grass
Swept the swift footsteps of the lovely light,
Turning the tears of Night to joyous gems."

"Oh, we have delayed too long," says Monica, with a touch of awe
engendered by the marvellous and mystic beauty of the hour. "Good-night,
good-night!"

"Nay, rather a fair good-morrow, my sweet love," says Desmond, straining
her to his heart.

CHAPTER XXV.

How The Desmond's mind is harrassed by a gentle maiden and two
ungentle roughs; and how the Land League shows him a delicate
attention.

"By the by," says old Mr. Desmond, looking at his nephew across the
remains of the dessert, "You've been a good deal at Aghyohillbeg of
late: why?"

It is next evening, and, Monica being at Moyne and inaccessible, Brian
is at Co