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"Yes, quite so: that is exactly what I meant," returns he, agreeably. It was not what he meant; but that doesn't count. "How awfully clever you are," he says, presently, alluding to her management of the little pats, which, to say truth, are faring but ill at her hands. "I wasn't," says Mona: "I went out a great deal. All day long I was in the open air. That is what made my hands so brown last autumn." She is clad in a snowy gown of simple cotton, that sits loosely to her lissom figure yet fails to disguise the beauty of it. A white kerchief lies softly on her neck. She has pulled up her sleeves, so that her arms are bare,—her round, soft, naked arms that in themselves are a perfect picture. She is standing with her head well thrown back, and her hands—full of corn—lifted high in the air, as she cries aloud, "Cooee! Cooee!" in a clear musical voice..
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At last, as she grows weary for wishing for it,— "Good gracious, Mona, whom do you mean?" asks he, aghast both at her look and tone. Below is the lake, bathed in moonshine. A gentle wind has arisen, and little wavelets silver-tinged are rolling inward, breaking themselves with tender sobs upon the shore. "You are very kind. The river is greatly swollen," she says, to gain time. Geoffrey, perhaps, will not like her to accept any civility at the hands of this common enemy..
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