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"You are speaking of Lady Chetwoode? Was it her that called last week?" asks Mona, timidly, forgetting grammar in her nervousness. "If I made a mistake I am sorry for it." To her there is nothing strange or new, either in the hour or the place. Often does she come here in the moonlight with her faithful attendant and her two dogs, to sit and dream away a long sweet hour brimful of purest joy, whilst drinking in the plaintive charm that Nature as a rule flings over her choicest paintings..

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"I hardly think so. You can refuse to see people yourself when it suits you. Only yesterday, when Mr. Boer, our rector, called, and I sent for you, you would not come." "Where's the docther at all, at all?" says he, forcing Geoffrey into a chair, and turning to Biddy, who is standing open-mouthed in the doorway, and who, though grieved, is plainly finding some pleasure in the situation. Being investigated, she informs them the "docther" is to-night on the top of Carrigfoddha Mountain, and, literally, "won't be home until morning." I am sure at even this supreme moment it never enters Mona's brain that the man is actually making love to her. A deep pity for him fills her mind. He is unhappy, justly so, no doubt, but yet unhappy. A sure passport to her heart. "But do you mean to tell me the girl he loves will give him up just because fortune is frowning on him?" asks Mona, slowly. "Sure she couldn't be so mean as that.".