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"I hardly think our dance is ended yet, Mrs. Rodney," says the Australian, defiantly, coming leisurely forward, his eyes bent somewhat insolently upon Geoffrey. "No; but I can fancy him, with his horrid bald head. Now, you know," holding up his hand to stop her as she is about to speak, "you know you said he hadn't a hair left on it." "Well, really, do you know, I think she did!" says Mona, so demurely that they all smile again..

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"I hardly like to ask her to do it," says the young man, divided between an overpowering desire to be made "comfortable," as she has expressed it, and a chivalrous fear that the sight of the nasty though harmless flesh-wound will cause her some distress. "Perhaps it will make you unhappy,—may shock you," he says to her, with some anxiety. No one answers; the very moanings of the old crone in the chimney-corner are hushed as the clear young voice rings through the house, and then stops abruptly, as though its owner is overcome with emotion. The men move back a little, and glance uneasily and with some fear at her from under their brows. "Or like the 'sweet little cherub that sits up aloft.' There is something cherubic about you, do you know Nolly, when one comes to think of it. But finish your tale." On the right side of the fireplace, lying along the wall, is a rude stretcher,—or what appears to be such,—on which, shrouded decently in a white cloth, lies something that chills with mortal fear the heart, as it reminds it of that to which we all some day must come. Beneath the shroud the murdered man lies calmly sleeping, his face smitten into the marble smile of death..