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"We have all to do that at times," says Sir Nicholas. "And there is another person, mother, I shall be glad if you will send a card to." Over the meadows and into the wood goes Mona, to where a streamlet runs, that is her special joy,—being of the garrulous and babbling order, which is, perhaps, the nearest approach to divine music that nature can make. But to-day the stream is swollen, is enlarged beyond all recognition, and, being filled with pride at its own promotion, has forgotten its little loving song, and is rushing onward with a passionate roar to the ocean. "I tell you I have not," says Geoffrey. "Nothing of the sort. You are wool-gathering.".

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A little foam has gathered round his lips, and his eyes are wild. Geoffrey, by a slight movement, puts himself between Mona and this man, who is evidently besides himself with some inward fear and horror. "Yes; I wore my big Rubens hat, the one with——" "I have been taught nothing," she says, with a most successful grasp at dignity. "They do not speak of you at the Towers,—at least, not unkindly." She looks at him as she says this, but lowers her eyes as she meets his. This dark, vehement young man almost frightens her. "I parted the leaves of the laurel with cautious hand and looked down. At my very feet were Jack and Violet, and"—mysteriously—"she was pinning a flower into his coat!".