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Unsoiled and swift, and of a silken sound." "At home," returns he. He is gazing out of the window, with his hands clasped behind his back, and does not pay so much attention to her words as is his wont. She lays her hand upon her heart, as though she would say, "The wound lies here," and once more turns to the door..
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"I should very much like to go," says Mona, gently, and with some eagerness. She has been sitting very quietly with her hands before her, hardly hearing what is passing around her,—lost, buried in thought. "There is a limit to everything,—even my patience," he says, not looking at his mother. "Mona is myself, and even from you, my mother, whom I love and reverence, I will not take a disparaging word of her." The whole firmament is of a soft azure, flecked here and there with snowy clouds tipped with palest gray. A little cloud—the tenderest veil of mist—hangs between earth and sky. "How can I go," he says, without daring to look at her, "until, at least, I ask for forgiveness?" He feels more nervous, more crushed in the presence of this little wounded Irish girl with her pride and her grief, than he has ever felt in the presence of an offended fashionable beauty full of airs and caprices. "Mona, love makes one cruel: I ask you to remember that, because it is my only excuse," he says, warmly. "Don't condemn me altogether; but forgive me once more.".
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