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Some one comes in with a lamp, and places it on a distant table, where its rays cannot distress the dying man. "Will that take her long?" asks Mona, somewhat wistfully, feeling, without understanding, some want in his voice. "Well, it always is on her head," says Mr. Rodney, at which ridiculous joke they both laugh as gayly as though it were a bon-mot of the first water. That "life is thorny, and youth is vain" has not as yet occurred to either of these two. Nay, more, were you even to name this thought to them, they would rank it as flat blasphemy, and you a false prophet—love and laughter being, up to this, the burden of their song..

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"No; on my word, no," says Nolly, choking with laughter, in which he is joined by all but Mona. "She said all that, and lots more!" "Not even to you," very gravely. There is reproof in her tone. They are standing somewhat apart, and her eyes have been turned from him. Now, as she says this, she changes her position slightly, and looks at him very earnestly. From the distant ballroom the sound of the dying music comes sadly, sweetly; a weeping fountain in a corner mourns bitterly, as it seems to Mona, tear by tear, perhaps for some lost nymph. "That's me," says Mona, glancing at him archly from under her long lashes. "You are speaking of Lady Chetwoode? Was it her that called last week?" asks Mona, timidly, forgetting grammar in her nervousness..