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Possessed with this thought,—which drowns all others,—he clasps his hands behind his back and saunters to the window. "Shall he go and meet Mona and learn the truth at once? Better not, perhaps; she is such a clever child that it is as well to let her achieve victory without succor of any sort." To-morrow will be market-day in Bantry, to which the week's butter must go; and now the churning is over, and the result of it lies cold and rich and fresh beneath Mona's eyes. She herself is busily engaged printing little pats off a large roll of butter that rests on the slab before her; her sleeves are carefully tucked up, as on that first day when Geoffrey saw her; and in defiance of her own heart—which knows itself to be sad—she is lilting some little foolish lay, bright and shallow as the October sunshine that floods the room, lying in small silken patches on the walls and floor. "Come in and rest," she said. Broken Bow did not understand her language, but Cold Maker, who understands all tribes, said, "We are cold. Will you let us sit by your fire?".
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By this time they have reached Dorothy's room, and now, sitting down, gaze mournfully at each other. Mona is so truly grieved that any one might well imagine this misfortune, that is rendering the very air heavy, in her own, rather than another's. And this wholesale sympathy, this surrendering of her body and mind to a grief that does not touch herself, is inexpressibly sweet to her poor little friend. Each moment of delay only helps to increase her nervous excitement. "Very good," says Mona, indifferently, after which the woman, having straightened a cushion or two, takes her departure. "Yes; I can understand you," said Mona, softly, "for I too was miserable.".
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