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Still holding her hand, as though loath to quit it, he moves towards the door; but before reaching it she slips away from him, and says "Good-by" rather coldly. "Very well," says Mona, who is pale and thoughtful. Up the stairs she takes her and into her own room, without saying a word. Then she carefully turns the key in the door, and, placing Mona in a large and cosey arm-chair, stands opposite to her, and thus begins,—.

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"I do not know where I am going," he replied; "I am in trouble, but I cannot talk about it." "Well, you know it now. I do object," says Geoffrey, in a tone he has never used to her before. Not that it is unkind or rude, but cold and unlover-like. Mere beauty of form and feature will fade indeed, but Mona's beauty lies not altogether in nose or eyes or mouth, but rather in her soul, which compels her face to express its lightest meaning. It is in her expression, which varies with each passing thought, changing from "grave to gay, from lively to severe," as the soul within speaks to it, that her chief charm dwells. She is never quite the same for two minutes running,—which is the surest safeguard against satiety. And as her soul is pure and clean, and her face is truly the index to her mind, all it betrays but endears her to and makes richer him who reads it. "Impossible is a word only to be found in the dictionary of fools. You are not a fool. This is a mere fad of yours and I think you hardly know why you are insisting on it.".