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He draws Mrs. Geoffrey's hand through his arm, and goes towards the lodge. "Don't let us quarrel," he says, lovingly. And this time she returns his caress very fondly, though she cannot lose sight of the fact that he has committed a social error not to be lightly overlooked. "If you have Jenkins on your side you are pretty safe," says Geoffrey. "My mother is more afraid of Jenkins than you would be of a land-leaguer. Well, good-by again. I must be off.".

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"But, my darling child, I can't help the fact that George Rodney left me the Hall," says Geoffrey, deprecatingly, reducing the space between them to a mere nothing, and slipping his arm round her waist. "And if I was a beggar on the face of the earth, I could not love you more than I do, nor could you, I hope"—reproachfully—"love me better either." An old crone is sitting over a turf fire that glows and burns dimly in its subdued fashion. Hanging over it is a three-legged pot, in which boil the "praties" for the "boys'" dinners, who will be coming home presently from their work. She is enchanted, and stands there for a minute or two spellbound by the glory of the scene before her. Then a desire to see her beloved lake from the great windows in the northern gallery takes possession of her. She will go and look at it, and afterwards creep on tiptoe to the library, seize the book she had been reading before dinner, and make her way back again to her room without any one being in the least the wiser. Anything will be better than sitting here any longer, dreaming dismal day-dreams. "It is forever!" he says, incoherently. "Oh, Mona, at least—at least promise you will always think kindly of me.".