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"Is your brother, Mr. Rodney, like you?" asks Mona presently. "From Mr. Moore." A mischievous light comes into her face as she says this, and she laughs aloud. "But, I assure you, not as a love-token. He gave them to me when they were quite babies, and I reared them myself. Are they not lovely? I call them? 'Spice' and 'Allspice,' because one has a quicker temper than the other." "Law, no, sir," says the old man, with a loud and hearty laugh. "I think if ye could see the counthry girls round here, an' compare 'em with my Mona, you'd see that for yerself. She's as fine as the queen to them. Her mother, you see, was the parson's daughter down here; tiptop she was, and purty as a fairy, but mighty delicate; looked as if a march wind would blow her into heaven. Dan—he was a brother of mine, an' a solicitor in Dublin. You've been there, belike?".
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"That is a pretty verse," she says, quietly. "But I do not know the poem. I should like to read it." She would have gone to him then, and tried to console him in her own pretty fashion, but he motions her to stay where she is. And all the land is rich with angry beauty beneath the rays of the cold moon, that Down from the mountain's top the shadows are creeping stealthily: all around is growing dim, and vague, and mysterious, in the uncertain light..
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