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"Is there? Then I shall certainly return for it," says Geoffrey, who is too much of a gentleman to pretend to understand all her words seem to imply. "It is really no journey from this to England." "I am sure we shall all be very glad," she says, faintly, feeling herself bound to make some remark. But to the hill of Carrickdhuve, to sit alone and gaze in loving silence on the heaven-born grandeur of earth and sky and sea, comes Mona Scully no more forever..

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Some time before this, after Red Robe had made his long fasting, and his dream had come to him and he had returned to his grandmother's lodge, he had told his true friend something of what had been said to him by his dream. "Mona, you musn't do that. Now, I shall be really annoyed if you insist on sitting up for me and so lose a good night's rest. Now, don't, darling. It will only take it out of you, and make you pale and languid next day." When she is gone, Geoffrey walks impatiently up and down the small hall, conflicting emotions robbing him of the serenity that usually attends his footsteps. He is happy, yet full of a secret gnawing uneasiness that weighs upon him daily, hourly. Near Mona—when in her presence—a gladness that amounts almost to perfect happiness is his; apart from her is unrest. Love, although he is but just awakening to the fact, has laid his chubby hands upon him, and now holds him in thrall; so that no longer for him is that most desirable thing content,—which means indifference. Rather is he melancholy now and then, and inclined to look on life apart from Mona as a doubtful good. "How sad Nicholas looks!" says Mona, suddenly..