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"When you got the pistol so cleverly into your own possession, why on earth didn't you shoot him?" demands Mr. Darling, gloomily, who evidently feels bloodthirsty when he thinks of the Australian and his presumptuous admiration for the peerless Mona. "It is Mr. Moore's retriever!" cries Mona, hurriedly, in a startled tone. "I must run. Down, Fan! down! Oh, if he catches me here, in this dress, what will he think? Quick, Geoffrey, give me my shawl!" "I think," says Geoffrey, slightly disconcerted by the sweet leisure of her gaze, "I have lost my way. I have been walking since sunrise, and I want you to tell me where I am.".

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They have reached the farm again by this time, and Geoffrey, taking up the guns he had left behind the hall door,—or what old Scully is pleased to call the front door in contradistinction to the back door, through which he is in the habit of making his exits and entrances,—holds out his hand to bid her good-by. He knows her sufficiently well to refrain from further expostulation, and just accompanies her silently along the lonely road. I am sure at even this supreme moment it never enters Mona's brain that the man is actually making love to her. A deep pity for him fills her mind. He is unhappy, justly so, no doubt, but yet unhappy. A sure passport to her heart. Here he breaks down ignominiously, considering the amount of sternness he had summoned to his aid when commencing, and, walking to the mantelpiece, lays his arm on it, and his head upon his arms..