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At this moment, Geoffrey—who has been absent—saunters into the room, and, after a careless glance around, says, lightly, as if missing something,— "Oh, my lady, if I must speak," cries the old man, "but it is terrible news to tell without a word of warning. Mr. Paul Rodney is dying: he shot himself half an hour ago, and is lying now at Rawson's Lodge in the beech wood." "Wait," said the Thunder; "stop. You are the stronger, you have the greater medicine. You shall have your wife. Take down her eyes.".

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She chatters on gayly to the duke, losing sight of the fact of his rank, and laughing and making merry with him as though he were one of the ordinary friends of her life. And to Lauderdale, who is susceptible to beauty and tired of adulation, such manner has its charm, and he is perhaps losing his head a little, and is conning a sentence or two of a slightly tender nature, when another partner coming up claims Mona, and carries her away from what might prove dangerous quarters. "To my forehead?" says Mona, puzzled; and then she glances at Geoffrey, remembering that this was one of the slight variations with which he adorned his tale. "My queen lacks nothing," says Geoffrey. Then, as he feels the rising wind that is soughing through the barren trees, he says, hurriedly, "My darling, you will catch cold. Put on your wraps again." At this Geoffrey says something under his breath about Paul Rodney that he ought not to say, looking the while at Nicholas with a certain light in his blue eyes that means not only admiration but affection..