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When the old man has gone, Mona goes quietly up to her lover, and, laying her hand upon his arm,—a hand that seems by some miraculous means to have grown whiter of late,—says, gratefully,—,

"Just fancy the Æsthetic with a husband, and a baby on her knee.",

She excuses her unwonted drowsiness with a little laugh, natural and friendly, and begs them "not to betray her." Clothed in all this sweetness she drops a word or two meant to crush Mona; but that hapless young woman hears her not, being bent on explaining to Mrs. Carson that, as a rule, the Irish peasantry do not go about dressed only in glass beads, like the gay and festive Zulus, and that petticoats and breeches are not utterly unknown.,

"Come in for a little while and rest yourself," says Mona, hospitably, "while I get the brandy and send it up to poor Kitty."

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A strange feeling of shyness is weighing upon her. Her stalwart English lover is standing close beside her, having risen from his chair with his eyes on hers, and in his shirt-sleeves looking more than usually handsome because of his pallor, and because of the dark circles that, lying beneath his eyes, throw out their color, making them darker, deeper, than is their nature. How shall she bare the arm of this young Adonis?—how help to heal his wound? Oh, Larry Moloney, what hast thou not got to answer for!,

Moreover, he has never before had a gun in his own keeping; and the sensation, though novel, is not so enchanting as he had fondly hoped it might have been. He is plainly shy about the managing of it, and in his heart is not quite sure which end of it goes off. However, he lifts it with trembling fingers, and deliberately covers Rodney.,

There was a young man named Mīka´pi. Every morning when he awoke he heard the mourning of these poor widows, and all through the day he could not forget their sorrow. He pitied them. One day he sent his mother to them, to tell them that he wished to speak with them. When they had come to the lodge they entered and sat down close by the doorway and covered their heads.,

"I think every one is to be pitied; and Jack more than most,—after dear Nicholas," she says, gently, with such a kindly glance at Violet as goes straight to that young woman's heart, and grows and blossoms there forever after.