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"What a clever child you are!" says Geoffrey, with genuine admiration. "And what is here?" laying his hand on the third drawer. "An' what brought him home, the murdherin' scamp," says Miss Bridget, with more vehemence than politeness, "instid of stayin' wid ye to see ye came to no harm?" "I should think it a long journey," says Mona, shaking her head..
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"In the National Gallery, do you mean?" asks Mona, with a pretty, puzzled frown on her brow. "Oh, no, Geoffrey; I shouldn't like that at all. To be stared at by everybody,—it wouldn't be nice, would it?" In the night, together, in sleep, without pain, their shadows had departed to the Sandhills. Mona, not attempting to reason with her again, shakes her head despondingly, and leaves the cabin with Geoffrey at her side. "Answer me," persists Mona, not heeding—nay, scarcely hearing—his last speech. "You said once it would be difficult to lie to me. Do you know anything of this missing will?".
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