esh, and the
Misses Blake, too, separate and go to their own rooms, with an air of
careful unconcern, that would not have imposed upon a one-year babe.

When again they reappear, they seem desirous of avoiding each other's
glances, whereupon it occurs suddenly to everybody that they have both
put on their very best silk gowns and lace caps, and have in fact got
themselves up with elaborate care to receive--a _Desmond_! No wonder
they are ashamed of themselves!

Still keeping up the outward symptoms of supreme indifference, they seat
themselves in the drawing-room, Miss Penelope attacking her knitting
with tremendous vigor, whilst Miss Priscilla gets apparently lost in the
pages of "Temple Bar." Monica, sliding in presently like a small ghost,
in her clinging white gown, slips into a seat in the window that
overlooks the avenue, and hides herself and her pretty anxious face
behind the lace curtains.

An hour glides by with aggravating slowness; and then a sound of wheels
upon the gravel makes Monica's heart beat almost to suffocation. The two
Misses Blake, suddenly forgetful of their _role_ of unconcern, start
from their seats and go to the window where Monica now is standing. A
brougham and pair of horses drive up to the door, and a young man,
opening the door, springs to the ground. It is Desmond.

"To come here in a close carriage!" says Miss Priscilla, with much
contempt. "Is he afraid of catching cold, I wonder? I never heard of
such foppery in my life."

"He is not a fop," says Monica, indignantly, and then she catches sight
of her lover's face, and something in it awakes within her a prescience
of coming evil.

Then the drawing-room door is thrown open with rather unceremonious
haste, and the young man, entering, goes straight to where Miss
Priscilla is standing, merely taking and holding Monica's hand as he
reaches her, but addressing to her neither word nor look. He seems
greatly agitated, and altogether unlike the man who stood here yesterday
and almost defied them. His face is very pale, and full of honest grief
and indignation.

"My uncle is at death's doors," he says in a voice that quivers with
rage and excitement. "Coming home late last night he was shot at by some
ruffians from behind the blackthorn hedge on the Coole road. He wants
you Miss Blake" (to Priscilla). "He is asking for you. You will not
refuse to come to a man who may be dying for all we know! I have
brought the carriage for you, and