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"For the agint, miss. Oh, if ye tell on me now they'll kill me. Maxil, ye know; me lord's agint." "You, Ryan?" says Mona, with an attempt at unconcern, but her tone is absolutely frozen with fear. The fire blazes up fiercely, and anon drops its flame and sinks into insignificance once more. Again the words that bear some vague but as yet undiscovered meaning haunt Mona's brain. "A splendid scheme." A vile conspiracy, perhaps. Oh, that she might be instrumental in saving these people from ruin, among whom her lot had been cast! But how weak her arm! How insufficient her mind to cope with an emergency like this!.
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At this Mona turns her gaze secretly upon him. She studies his hair, his gray eyes, his irregular nose,—that ought to have known better,—and his handsome mouth, so resolute, yet so tender, that his fair moustache only half conceals. The world in general acknowledges Mr. Rodney to be a well-looking young man of ordinary merits, but in Mona's eyes he is something more than all this; and I believe the word "ordinary," as applied to him, would sound offensive in her ears. "Time will soften her grief," says Rodney, with an attempt at soothing. "And she is young; she will marry again, and form new ties." "Is she—is she noisy?" she asks, in a faltering tone. "I do not think unkindly of you," she says, gently, but coldly. "And do as your conscience dictates, and you will gain not only my respect, but that of all men.".
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