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Nor motion, I might almost say, "Yes, of course," she says, dejectedly. A cloud seems to have fallen upon her happy hour. "When did you hear that—that last singer?" she asks, in a subdued voice. Geoffrey does not hear her. Paul does. And as his own name, coming from her lips, falls upon his ear, a great change passes over his face. It is ashy pale; his lips are bloodless; his eyes are full of rage and undying hatred: but at her voice it softens, and something that is quite indescribable, but is perhaps pain and grief and tenderness and despair combined, comes into it. Her lips—the purest and sweetest under heaven—have deigned to address him as one not altogether outside the pale of friendship,—of common fellowship. In her own divine charity and tenderness she can see good in others who are not (as he acknowledges to himself with terrible remorse) worthy to touch the very hem of her white skirts..

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"I'm sure I don't wonder," says Geoffrey, very humbly. "I beg your pardon a thousand times; and—good-by, Miss Mona." Ill luck has attended his efforts to-day, or else his thoughts have been wandering in the land where love holds sway, because he is empty-handed. The bonnie brown bird has escaped him, and no gift is near to lay at Mona's shrine. To her there is nothing strange or new, either in the hour or the place. Often does she come here in the moonlight with her faithful attendant and her two dogs, to sit and dream away a long sweet hour brimful of purest joy, whilst drinking in the plaintive charm that Nature as a rule flings over her choicest paintings. "In that I spoke the truth," says Mr. Rodney, with a shameless laugh, "because it was an uncle who left me some money.".