"Monica!" says Kit, indignantly; but Monica only laughs the more.
"It is my turn now, you know," she says.
"Kit had nothing to do with it: it was all my fault," says Desmond, laughing too. "If you must pour out the vials of your wrath on some one, let it be on me."
"Yes, give him a good scolding, Monica," says Kit viciously, but with a lovely smile. "I am going [to ]pick to some ferns for Aunt Pen; when I return I hope I shall find that recreant knight of yours—I mean mine—at the point of death!"
At this she flits away from them, like the good little thing she is, up a sloping bank, and so into the fields beyond, until Desmond and Monica are as much alone as if a whole sphere divided them from their kind. Dear little Kit! When her own time comes may she be as kindly dealt with!
"You are angry with me still,—about last night," says Desmond, softly, "and, I own, with cause. But I was miserable when I called you a coquette, and misery makes a man unjust. I wrote to Kit this morning,—I was afraid to write to you,—and she was very good to me."
"How good?" plucking a leaf from a brier, as she goes slowly, very slowly—down the road.
"She brought me you. Do you know, Monica, I have been as unhappy as a man can be since last I saw you,—a whole night and part of a day? Is it not punishment enough?"
"Too much for your crime," whispers she, softly, turning suddenly towards him and letting her great luminous eyes rest with forgiveness upon his. She smiles sweetly, but with some timidity, because of the ardor of the glance that answers hers. Taking her hand with an impulsive movement impossible to restrain, Desmond presses it rapturously to his lips. Drawing it away from him with shy haste, Monica walks on in silence.
"If I had written to you, and not to her, would you still have been here to-day?" asks he, presently.