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"My own old pet," says Mrs. Geoffrey, still mysteriously, and with the fondest smile imaginable. That he—who has known so many seasons, and passed through the practised hands of some of the prettiest women this world can afford, heart-whole, and without a scratch—should fall a victim to the innocent wiles of a little merry Irish girl of no family whatever, seems too improbable even of belief, however lovely beyond description this girl may be (and is), with her wistful, laughing, mischievous Irish eyes, and her mobile lips, and her disposition half angelic, half full of fire and natural coquetry. Geoffrey coming to the farm somewhat early in the evening, Mona takes him round to the yard, where two dogs, hitherto unseen by Geoffrey, lie chained. They are two splendid bloodhounds, that, as she approaches, rise to their feet, and, lifting their massive heads, throw out into the night-air a deep hollow bay that bespeaks welcome..
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"I would, of course, with pleasure," stammers the unfortunate Nolly,—"only perhaps Violet heard it before!" "Your advice is excellent," says he, sneeringly. Then suddenly he stops short before her, and breaks out vehemently,—— She disappears, and Geoffrey, obedient to orders, lounges off to the green glade, that now no longer owns rich coloring, but is strewn with leaves from the gaunt trees that stand in solemn order like grave sentries round it. "What a dismal view you take of my trip! Perhaps, in spite of your forebodings, I shall enjoy myself down to the ground, and weep copiously on leaving Irish soil.".
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