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And by degrees, beneath her influence, Mona grows pale and distrait and in many respects unlike her old joyous self. Each cold, reproving glance and sneering word,—however carefully concealed—falls like a touch of ice upon her heart, chilling and withering her glad youth. Up to this she has led a bird's life, gay, insouciant, free and careless. Now her song seems checked, her sweetest notes are dying fast away through lack of sympathy. She is "cribbed, cabined, and confined," through no fault of her own, and grows listless and dispirited in her captivity. "Dear me! what a terribly unpleasant young man!" thinks Mona, at her wits' end to know what to say next. Tapping her fingers in a perplexed fashion on the table nearest her, she wonders when he will cease his exhaustive survey of the walls and give her an opportunity of leaving the room. "Besides, I do not understand what you mean," says Geoffrey, still regarding his mother with angry eyes "Why connect Mona's absence with Paul Rodney?".
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All the people hurried out to see him and to ask him questions. "Where did you get all these fine things?" He did not answer. There in the crowd stood that young woman, and, taking the two raven feathers from his head, he gave them to her and said, "The trail was long and I nearly died, but by those helpers I found his lodge. He is glad. He sends these feathers to you. They are the sign." "Come," he said, taking hold of her arm. "Is truth insolence?" asks Rodney. "If so, I demand your pardon. My speech, no doubt, was a betise, yet it came from my heart." "Look at him, under that fern there!" exclaims Mona, in her clear treble, that has always something sweet and plaintive in it. "On your right—no! not on your left. Sure you know your right, don't you?" with a full, but unconscious, touch of scorn. "Hurry! hurry! or he will be gone again. Was there ever such a hateful bird! With his good food in the yard, and his warm house, and his mother crying for him! Ah! there you have him! No!—yes! no! He is gone again!".
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