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"Not until you tell me what made you cry." "It shall be as you say," replied the Wolf. "It is yours to give." "If you like. Are you fond of singing!".

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"Is it worth so much thought?" he says, bitterly. "It surely will not injure you fatally to lay your hand in mine for one instant." Her companion is singularly silent. Scarce one word has escaped him since she first laid her hand upon his arm, and now again dumbness, or some hidden feeling, seals his lips. "Come and sit by me. You can spare me a few minutes," she says, drawing her ample skirts to one side. Mona, taking her hand from Lauderdale's arm, drops into the proffered seat beside his mother, much to that young man's chagrin, who, having inherited the material hankering after that "delightful prejudice," as Theocritus terms beauty, is decidedly epris with Mrs. Geoffrey, and takes it badly being done out of his tete-a-tete with her. "Oh, what a day is this!" cries she, with quivering lips. "See the ruin you have brought upon this home, that only yestermorn was full of life and gladness! Is this what has come of your Land League, and your Home Rulers, and your riotous meetings? Where is the soul of this poor man, who was hurried to his last account without his priest, and without a prayer for pardon on his lips? And how shall the man who slew him dare to think on his own soul?".