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"What does he say about the moon?" asks Mona, still with her knees in her embrace, and without lifting her eyes from the quiet waters down below. "Oh, Mona, do go—do," entreats Doatie, who is in tears. "Poor, poor fellow! I wish now I had not been so rude to him." "If you like. Are you fond of singing!".

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"Put down your pistol, sir," she says, hastily. "Would you fire on a woman?" Her tone, though hurried, is not oppressed with fear. She even advances a few steps in his direction. Her words, her whole manner, fill him with admiration. The extreme courage she betrays is, indeed worthy of any man's laudation, but the implied trust in his chivalry touches Paul Rodney more than anything has ever had power to touch him before. "I want you to leave Ireland—not next month, or next week, but at once. To-morrow, if possible." And here perhaps it will be as well to explain the trouble that at this time weighs heavily upon the Rodney family. "Lies! Oh, fie!" says Doatie. "Who tells lies? Nobody, except the naughty little boys in tracts, and they always break their legs off apple-trees, or else get drowned on a Sunday morning. Now, we are not drowned, and our legs are uninjured. No, a lie is a horrid thing,—so low, and in such wretched taste. But there are little social fibs that may be uttered,—little taradiddles,—that do no harm to anybody, and that nobody believes in, but all pretend to, just for the sake of politeness.".