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Mona's waxen arms gleam like snow in the uncertain light. Each movement of hers is full of grace and verve. Her entire action is perfect. "Dance no more to-night with that fellow," he says quickly, as they get outside. "Very good, miss; I'm going," says the woman, and with a last touch to the butter she covers it over with a clean wet cloth and moves to the yard door. The two chickens on the threshold, who have retreated and advanced a thousand times, now retire finally with an angry "cluck-cluck," and once more silence reigns..
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"No, it will not shock me," returns Mona, quietly; whereupon he sits down, and Biddy puts a basin on the table, and Mona, with trembling fingers, takes a scissors, and cuts away the shirt-sleeve from his wounded arm. Then she bathes it. "Do you recollect all you said, or one-half of it? You said it would be well if I hated you." "It is," replies he, absently. Then, below his breath, "and well worth fighting for." "Let her thry," says old Brian, in his soft, Irish brogue, that comes kindly from his tongue. "She's mighty clever about most things.".
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