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"Good by, dear Paul," says Mona, very gently, impressed by his evident grief and earnestness. "Nearly all the Irish farmers are," returns Miss Mansergh, reluctantly. "When I stay with Uncle Wilfrid in Westmeath, I see them all going to mass every Sunday morning. Of course"—kindly—"there are a few Protestants, but they are very few." "By all means study them, if you are really bent on this tiresome journey. It may do you good. You will at least be more ready to take my advice another time.".

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The Rodneys are, for the most part, in the library, the room dearest to them. Mona is telling Doatie's fortune on cards, Geoffrey and Nicholas are discussing the merits and demerits of a new mare, Lady Rodney in still struggling with the crimson sock,—when the door is opened, and Nolly entering adds himself to the group. The short daylight fades; the wind grows higher; the whole scene is curious, and very nearly fantastical. The pretty girl in her clinging satin gown, and her gleaming neck and arms, bare and soft and white, and the tiny lace-fringed cap that crowns her fairness. The gaunt trees branching overhead that are showering down upon her all their fading wealth of orange and crimson and russet-colored leaves, that serve to throw out the glories of her dress. The brown-green sward is beneath her, the river runs with noiseless mirth beside her, rushing with faint music over sand and pebble to the ocean far below. Standing before her is her lover, gazing at her with adoring eyes. "Oh, no, I'm not clever," says Mona; "but"—nervously and with downcast eyes, addressing Geoffrey—"I might perhaps be able to make you a little more comfortable." All the young men thought this was funny; they laughed a good deal at Scarface as he was walking away..