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"'Tis the English gintleman, miss,—Misther Rodney. He wants to see ye," says the fair Bridget, putting her head in at the doorway, and speaking in a hushed and subdued tone. The teapot, meanwhile, is calmly ignoring its rage, and is positively turning up its nose at it. It is a very proud old teapot, and is looking straight before it, in a very dignified fashion, at a martial row of cups and saucers that are drawn up in battle-array and are only waiting for the word of command to march upon the enemy. "If you must know, it is this," says Mona, laying her hand in his and speaking very earnestly. "I am afraid I have done you an injury in marrying you!".

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By this time they have reached Dorothy's room, and now, sitting down, gaze mournfully at each other. Mona is so truly grieved that any one might well imagine this misfortune, that is rendering the very air heavy, in her own, rather than another's. And this wholesale sympathy, this surrendering of her body and mind to a grief that does not touch herself, is inexpressibly sweet to her poor little friend. Beauty, according to Ovid, is "a favor bestowed by the gods;" Theophrastus says it is "a silent cheat;" and Shakspeare tells us it "There is too much to forgive," says Lady Rodney, and as she speaks two tears roll down her cheeks. This evidence of emotion from her is worth a torrent from another. "You are lying, sir," says Mona, contemptuously..