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"How you were all laughing when we came in!" says Violet, presently: "we could hear you all along the corridor. What was it about?" "Where are you going?" asks Rodney, afraid lest his last speech has offended her. She has her hat on,—a big Gainsborough hat, round which soft Indian muslin is clinging, and in which she looks nothing less than adorable. "Yes, yes; that poor, poor woman! I cannot get her face out of my head. How forlorn! how hopeless! She has lost all she cared for; there is nothing to fall back upon. She loved him; and to have him so cruelly murdered for no crime, and to know that he will never again come in the door, or sit by her hearth, or light his pipe by her fire,—oh, it is horrible! It is enough to kill her!" says Mona, somewhat disconnectedly..
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"But I have to do with him," says Mona, distinctly. 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. "Come a little farther," he says, gently, slinging the heavy bag across his own shoulders. "There must be a farmhouse somewhere." "Better not remember it," says Violet, but she smiles as she calls to mind Jack's apt quotation..
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