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He has stooped very much over indeed. His hand is on the fern; he has safely carefully extracted it, roots and all (one would think I was speaking of a tooth! but this is by the way), from its native home, when cr-r-k goes something; the branch on which he rests betrays him, and smashing hurls him head downwards into the swift but shallow stream below. Geoffrey raises her hand to his lips. "Your king is also your slave," he says, with a fond smile. "But, Geoffrey, why should I be cold to your mother? Sure you wouldn't have me be uncivil to her, of all people?".

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"What! kiss the Australian? I'd see him—very well—that is—ahem! I certainly would not, you know," says Mr. Rodney. Geoffrey, who would be at any moment as polite to a dairymaid as to a duchess, follows her, and, much to her discomfort,—though she is too civil to say so,—helps her to lay the table. He even insists on filling a dish with the potatoes, and having severely burned his fingers, and having nobly suppressed all appearance of pain,—beyond the dropping of two or three of the esculent roots upon the ground,—brings them in triumph to the spot where Mona is sitting. Lastly, Lady Rodney comes to the front with,— "Yes; the one with the brown feather," returns Mona, quickly, and with a smile radiant and grateful, that sinks into Violet's heart and rests there..