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"Poor soul! poor soul!" says Mona, brokenly; then she drops her hand, and the woman, turning again to the lifeless body, as though in the poor cold clay lies her only solace, lets her head fall forward upon it. "Perhaps I feel nervous because of all the unhappy things one hears daily," goes on Mona, in a subdued voice. "That murder at Oola, for instance: that was horrible.' "I have nothing in my head," says Mona, tearfully..

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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. "Oh, well, that's it," says Mr. Darling, somewhat relieved. "I'm an awful duffer not to have guessed that Geoffrey's being out would keep you awake." Her coming is a thunderbolt, her speech lightning. Lady Rodney changes color, and is for once utterly disconcerted. "That is not correct," says Mona. "We have a baronet here, Sir Owen O'Connor, and he is thought a great deal of. I know all about it. Even Lady Mary would have married him if he had asked her, though his hair is the color of an orange. Mr. Rodney,"—laying a dreadful stress upon the prefix to his name,—"go back to England and"—tragically—"forget me?".