Until the moment we are describing, Connor and she, notwithstanding that they frequently met in public places, had never yet spoken; nor could the words now uttered by Una be considered as addressed to him, although from the glance that accompanied them it was sufficiently evident that they were intended for him alone.  It was in vain that he attempted to accost her; his confusion, her pleasure, his timidity, seemed to unite in rendering him incapable of speaking at all.  His lips moved several times, but the words, as they arose, died away unspoken.

At this moment, Mike, with waggish good-humor, and in a most laudable fit of industry, reminded the other servants, who had been assisting to secure the bees, that as they (the bees) were now safe, no further necessity existed for their presence.

“Come, boys—­death-alive, the day’s passin’—­only think.  Miss Una, that we have all the hay in the Long-shot meadow to get into cocks yet, an’ here we’re idlin’ an’ ghosther—­in’ away our time like I dunna what.  They’re schamin’, Miss Una—­divil a thing else, an’ what’ll the masther say if the same meadow’s not finished to—­night?”

“Indeed, Mike,” replied Una—­; “if the meadow is to be finished this night, there’s little time to be lost.”

“Come, boys,” exclaimed Mike, “you hear what Miss Una says—­if it’s to be finished to-night there’s but little time to be lost—­turn out—­march.  Miss Una can watch the bees widout our help.  Good evenin’, Misther Donovan; be my word, but you’re entitled to a taste o’ honey any way, for bringing back Miss Una’s bees to her.”

Mike, after having uttered this significant opinion relative to his sense of justice, drove his fellow-servants out of the garden, and left the lovers together.  There was now a dead silence, during the greater part of which, neither dared to look at the other; at length each hazarded a glance; their eyes met, and their embarrassment deepened in a tenfold degree.  Una, on withdrawing her gaze, looked with an air of perplexity from one object to another, and at length, with downcast lids, and glowing cheeks, her eyes became fixed on her own white and delicate finger.

“Who would think,” said she, in a voice tremulous with agitation, “that the sting of a bee could be so painful.”

Connor advanced towards her with a beating heart.  “Where have you been stung, Miss O’Brien?” said he, in a tone shaken out of it’s fulness by what he felt.

“In the finger,” she replied, and she looked closely into the spot as she uttered the words.

“Will you let me see it?” asked Connor.

She held her hand towards him without knowing what she did, nor was it till after a strong effort that Connor mastered himself so far as to ask her in which finger she felt the pain.  In fact, both saw at once that their minds were engaged upon far different thoughts, and that their anxiety to pour out the full confession of their love was equally deep and mutual.