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She glances anxiously at Mona, who is gazing into the fire with a slight frown upon her brow, that looks sadly out of place on that smooth white surface. At Violet's last words it flies away, not to return. Mona is down at the gate waiting for him, evidently brimful of information. The floor itself is pale, nay, almost blue. A little snow is sifted lightly on branch, and grass, and ivied wall. Each object in the sleeping world is quite distinct..

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Quite near to the poor corpse, a woman sits, young, apparently, and with a handsome figure, though now it is bent and bowed with grief. She is dressed in the ordinary garb of the Irish peasant, with a short gown well tucked up, naked feet, and the sleeves of her dress pushed upwards until they almost reach the shoulder, showing the shapely arm and the small hand that, as a rule, belong to the daughters of Erin and betray the existence of the Spanish blood that in days gone by mingled with theirs. "It is terrible," says Mona, with such exceeding earnestness that he could have hugged her on the spot. All through the night Mona scarcely shuts her eyes, so full is her mind of troubled and perplexing thoughts. At last her brain grows so tired that she cannot pursue any subject to its end, so she lies silently awake, watching for the coming of the tardy dawn. "How melancholy!" says Mona, with a nearer approach to brightness than she has shown all day..