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"No. Of course I remember you now," says Mona, taking all this nonsense as quite bona fide sense in a maddeningly fascinating fashion. "How unkind I have been! But I was listening to the music, not to our introduction, when Sir Nicholas brought you up to me, and—and that is my only excuse." Then, sweetly, "You love music?" The cold seems hardly to touch Mona, so wrapped she is in the beauties of the night. There is at times a solemn indefinable pleasure in the thought that we are awake whilst all the world sleepeth; that we alone are thinking, feeling, holding high communion with our own hearts and our God. They are both silent for a little while, and then Dorothy says, softly,—.

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"Never mind Larry," says the farmer, impatiently. "This is the seventh time he has died this year. But think of Misther Rodney here. Can't ye do something for him?" At this they both laugh heartily, and Mona returns no more to the lachrymose mood that has possessed her for the last five minutes. When night came some one shouted out, calling people to a feast and saying, "Listen, listen, Wolf, you are to eat; enter with your friend." Presently, seeing she is again smiling and looking inexpressibly happy, for laughter comes readily to her lips, and tears, as a rule, make no long stay with her,—ashamed, perhaps, to disfigure the fair "windows of her soul," that are so "darkly, deeply, beautifully blue,"—"So you will come to England with me, after all?" he says, quite gayly..