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"I dare say," she says, carelessly, purposely mistaking his meaning: "it must have been cold lying there." And play the prelude of our fate." "You aren't angry, are you?" says Mona, now really contrite. "I couldn't help it, and it was like it, you know.".

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"No, darling, no; I am afraid not," he says, very gently. But for the poor child's tender earnestness and good faith, he could almost have felt some faint amusement; but this offering of hers is to him a sacred thing, and to treat her words as a jest is a thought far from him. Indeed, to give wilful offence to any one, by either word or action, would be very foreign to his nature. For if "he is gentil that doth gentil dedis" be true, Rodney to his finger-tips is gentleman indeed. "Oh, if—if—if!" interrupts he. "Is it that you are afraid for yourself? Remember there is 'beggary in the love that can be reckoned.'" Quite near to the poor corpse, a woman sits, young, apparently, and with a handsome figure, though now it is bent and bowed with grief. She is dressed in the ordinary garb of the Irish peasant, with a short gown well tucked up, naked feet, and the sleeves of her dress pushed upwards until they almost reach the shoulder, showing the shapely arm and the small hand that, as a rule, belong to the daughters of Erin and betray the existence of the Spanish blood that in days gone by mingled with theirs. "Then why did you choose that song?".