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Indeed, no sound disturbs the sacred silence save the crisp rustle of the dead leaves, as they are trodden into the ground.,

At this moment, Geoffrey—who has been absent—saunters into the room, and, after a careless glance around, says, lightly, as if missing something,—,

"Not in England, perhaps. When I spoke I was thinking of Ireland," says Mona.,

Mona is sitting in the morning-room, the faithful and ever lively Nolly at her side. According to his lights, she is "worth a ship-load of the whole lot," and as such he haunts her. But to-day she fails him. She is absent, depressed, weighed down with thought,—anything but congenial. She forgets to smile in the right place, says, "Yes" when courtesy requires "No," and is deaf to his gayest sallies.

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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.,

"Does she—does Miss Scully find country life unsatisfying? Has she not lived here always?",

Taking up the hapless heather, she throws it on the ground, and, in a fit of childish spleen, lays her foot upon it and tramples it out of all recognition. Yet, even as she does so, the tears gather in her eyes, and, resting there unshed, transfigure her into a lovely picture that might well be termed "Beauty in Distress." For this faded flower she grieves, as though it were, indeed, a living thing that she has lost.,

Sir Nicholas again applies himself to the deciphering of the detested letter. "'He would have written before, but saw no good in making a fuss beforehand,'" he reads slowly.