"What a lovely gun!" says Kit, admiringly.
"Isn't it?" says Terence, forgetting his bad temper in his anxiety to exhibit his treasure. "It's a breech-loader, too; none of your old-fashioned things, mind you, but a reg'lar good one. I'll tell you who lent it to me, if you'll promise not to peach."
"We won't," says Kit, who is burning with curiosity.
"Guess, then."
"Bob Warren?" says Monica. Bob Warren is the rector's son, and is much at Moyne.
"Not likely! Pegs above him. Well, I'll tell you. It's that fellow that's spoons on you,"—with all a brother's perspicacity,—"the fellow who saw us on the hay-cart,"—Monica writhes inwardly,—"Desmond, you know!"
"The enemy's nephew?" asks Kit, in a thrilling tone, that bespeaks delight and a malicious expectation of breakers ahead.
"Yes. I was talking to him yesterday, early in the day, at Madam O'Connor's; and he asked me was I your brother, Monica, to which I pleaded guilty, though," with a grin, "I'd have got out of it if I could; and then he began to talk about shooting, and said I might knock over any rabbits I liked in Coole. I told him I had no gun, so he offered to lend me one. I thought it was awfully jolly of him, considering I was an utter stranger, and that; but he looks a real good sort. He sent over the gun this morning by a boy, and I have had it hidden in the stable until now. I thought I'd never get out of that beastly garden this evening."
"Oh, Terence, you shouldn't have taken the gun from him," says Monica, flushing. "Just think what Aunt Priscilla would say if she heard of it. You know how determined she is that we shall have no intercourse with the Desmonds."
"Stuff and nonsense!" says Mr. Beresford. "I never heard such a row as they are forever making about simply nothing. Why, it's quite a common thing to jilt a girl, nowadays. I'd do it myself in a minute."