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"But you couldn't fondle a pig on your knees," says Mona, who is growing every minute more and more mixed.,

Geoffrey and Mona go up the road with the serenader behind them, and, turning aside, she guiding, mount a stile, and, striking across a field, make straight for the high hill that conceals the ocean from the farm. Over many fields they travel, until at length they reach the mountain's summit and gaze down upon the beauteous scene below.,

To-day is cool, and calm, and bright. Almost one fancies the first faint breath of spring has touched one's cheek, though as yet January has not wended to its weary close, and no smallest sign of growth or vegetation makes itself felt.,

"It is true," puts in Mona. "How could he tell when the coast was clear for his escape, unless he took a little peep?"

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"I wasn't alluding to your hands; though I might," says Nolly, pathetically. "I was only going to tell you what Jack said to Violet. 'What darling little hands you have!' he whispered, with the very silliest expression on his face I ever saw in my life; 'the prettiest hands in the world. I wish they were mine.' 'Gracious powers!' said I to myself, 'I'm in for it;' and I was as near falling off the branch of the tree right into their arms as I could be. The shock was too great. I suppressed a groan with a manful determination to 'suffer and be strong,' and——",

Ill luck has attended his efforts to-day, or else his thoughts have been wandering in the land where love holds sway, because he is empty-handed. The bonnie brown bird has escaped him, and no gift is near to lay at Mona's shrine.,

To-morrow will be market-day in Bantry, to which the week's butter must go; and now the churning is over, and the result of it lies cold and rich and fresh beneath Mona's eyes. She herself is busily engaged printing little pats off a large roll of butter that rests on the slab before her; her sleeves are carefully tucked up, as on that first day when Geoffrey saw her; and in defiance of her own heart—which knows itself to be sad—she is lilting some little foolish lay, bright and shallow as the October sunshine that floods the room, lying in small silken patches on the walls and floor.,

"Well, I do like a good story," says Violet, carelessly.