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"I wonder what kind of songs you like best," says Mona, dreamily, letting her fingers run noiselessly over the keys of the Collard. "If you are like me, you like sad ones.",

"I have given it," returns she, in a low tone,—so low that he has to bend to hear it. "Do not be angry with me, do not—I——",

"Not even to you," very gravely. There is reproof in her tone. They are standing somewhat apart, and her eyes have been turned from him. Now, as she says this, she changes her position slightly, and looks at him very earnestly. From the distant ballroom the sound of the dying music comes sadly, sweetly; a weeping fountain in a corner mourns bitterly, as it seems to Mona, tear by tear, perhaps for some lost nymph.,

"He says he knows nothing about any will."

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"As you have refused to explain your presence here to me, you shall remain where you now are until help arrives," says Mona, with evident determination.,

It is midday, and Geoffrey, gun in hand, is idly stalking through the sloping wood that rises behind Mangle Farm. The shooting he has had since his arrival in Ireland, though desultory,—perhaps because of it,—has proved delightful in his sight. Here coveys come upon one unawares, rising out of fields when least expected, and therefore when discovered possess all the novelty of a gigantic surprise. Now and then he receives kindly warning of birds seen "over night" in some particular corner, and an offer to escort him to the scene of action without beat of drum.,

"No, it is not all," breaks in Sir Nicholas. "It appears from this," touching the bombshell, "that he has married a—a—young woman of very inferior birth.",

Swiftly the magpie flew to the wallow, and alighting there, walked all about, looking in every hole and even tearing up the mud with his sharp beak. Presently he uncovered something white, and as he picked the mud from about it, he saw it was a bone, and pulling hard, he dragged it from the mud—the joint of a man's backbone. Then gladly he flew back with it to the woman.