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"But do you mean to tell me the girl he loves will give him up just because fortune is frowning on him?" asks Mona, slowly. "Sure she couldn't be so mean as that.",

"And, besides, you can always see him, you know," goes on Mona, cheerfully. "It is not as if death had stolen him from you. He will be always somewhere; and you can look into his eyes, and read how his love for you has survived everything. And perhaps, after some time, he may distinguish himself in some way and gain a position far grander than mere money or rank can afford, because you know he is wonderfully clever.",

"Like me? Oh, no," says Mrs. Geoffrey. "Some of them are really beautiful, like pictures. When I was staying with Aunt Anastasia—the Provost's wife, you remember—I saw a great many pretty people. I saw a great many students, too," says Mona, brightening, "and liked them very much. They liked me, too.",

"'She is pretty to walk with,

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"You speak like a lover," says Lady Rodney, with an artificial laugh. "Do you repeat all this to Dorothy? She must find it very interesting.",

"Oh, yes, no doubt I am in the wrong, because I cannot bring myself to adore a vulgar girl who all day long shocks me with her Irishisms," goes on Lady Rodney, almost in tears, born of vexation. "A girl who says, 'Sure you know I didn't' or 'Ah, did ye, now,' or 'Indeed I won't, then!' every other minute. It is too much. What you all see in her I can't imagine. And you too, Violet, you condemn me, I can see.",

"My dear fellow, let well alone," says Nicholas, with his slow, peculiar smile. "It was I induced Mona to dance with 'that fellow,' as you call him. Forgive me this injury, if indeed you count it one.",

A strange scene presents itself to their expectant gaze. Before them is a large room (if so it can be called), possessed of no flooring but the bare brown earth that Mother Nature has supplied. To their right is a huge fireplace, where, upon the hearthstone, turf lies burning dimly, emitting the strong aromatic perfume that belongs to it. Near it crouches an old woman with her blue-checked apron thrown above her head, who rocks herself to and fro in silent grief, and with every long-drawn breath—that seems to break from her breast like a stormy wave upon a desert shore—brings her old withered palms together with a gesture indicative of despair.