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"He was the Duke of Lauderdale," says Mona, simply. "Here is his card." Dr. Bland, coming into the room, goes up to the bedside and feels his pulse, and tries to put something between his lips, but he refuses to take anything. "Tim," she says, "what have I ever done to you that you should seek to make me unhappy?".
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"I shall go," he says, doggedly, as though divining her secret wish. Mona takes no notice of his words, but still stands by the table, with her hands folded, her long white robes clinging to her, her eyes lowered, her whole demeanor like that of some mediæval saint. So thinks Rodney, who is gazing at her as though he would forever imprint upon his brain the remembrance of a vision as pure as it is perfect. Dorothy from her corner laughs gayly. "Poor old Noll," she says: "it was his unhappy childhood that blighted his later years and made him the melancholy object he is." "Oh, no, don't," says Mona, earnestly. Then she stops short, and blushes a faint sweet crimson..
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