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"Oh, my lady, if I must speak," cries the old man, "but it is terrible news to tell without a word of warning. Mr. Paul Rodney is dying: he shot himself half an hour ago, and is lying now at Rawson's Lodge in the beech wood." Her face is hidden; it is lying on her arms, and they are cast, in the utter recklessness and abandonment of her grief, across the feet of him who, only yesterday, had been her "man,"—her pride and her delight. "Nay, you can say all that on your way back, an' get a half-shot into the bargain," says old Scully, heartily. "You'll hardly beat the potheen I can give ye." He winks knowingly, pats Rodney kindly on the shoulder, and leads the way out of the house. Yet I think Geoffrey would willingly have bartered potheen, partridge, and a good deal more, for just one last glance at Mona's beautiful face before parting. Cheered, however, by the prospect that he may see her before night falls, he follows the farmer into the open air..

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"But, as I said to Lady Rodney, suppose I haven't a headache," retorts Mona, triumphantly. "Yes; it was her that called last week," returns her amiable mother-in-law, laying an unmistakable stress upon the pronoun. So determined is her aspect that Geoffrey shows the white feather, and, crying "mea culpa," beats a hasty retreat. "You shall guess," says Mrs. Geoffrey, gayly, with a little laugh. "Now, where do you think?".