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"It appears he had a pocket-pistol with him, Sir Nicholas, and going home through the wood he stumbled over some roots, and it went off and injured him fatally. It is an internal wound, my lady. Dr. Bland, who is with him, says there is no hope." "Yes; I stopped there for two or three days on my way down here. Well—and—your brother?" He cannot to himself explain the interest he feels in this story. Who never to himself hath said,.
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"By the by," he says, once more restored to something like hope, as he notes her drooping lids and changing color and how she hides from his searching gaze her dark, blue, Irish eyes, that, as somebody has so cleverly expressed it, seem "rubbed into her head with a dirty finger," so marked lie the shadows beneath them, that enhance and heighten their beauty,—"by the by, you told me you had a miniature of your mother in your desk, and you promised to show it to me." He merely says this with a view to gaining more time, and not from any overwhelming desire to see the late Mrs. Scully. The whole scene is at an end. A life has been saved. And they two, Mona and Geoffrey, are once more alone beneath the "earnest stars." "You can waltz?" "Do you like it?" she asks, gently, bringing her gaze back from the glowing heavens, to the earth, which is even more beautiful..
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