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"You know what I mean," says Mona, reproachfully. "You needn't pretend you don't. And it is quite true that England does despise us." "I want to very much," says poor Mona, her eyes filling with tears. "But," hopelessly, "must I begin by learning to tell lies?" All this teaching is very bitter to her. So Mrs. Rodney says, "It was rather better than I anticipated, thank you," in a tone so icy that his is warm beside it..

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At this they both laugh heartily, and Mona returns no more to the lachrymose mood that has possessed her for the last five minutes. "I slept badly last night; I hardly slept at all," she says, plaintively, evading direct reply. Lady Rodney, too, is quite happy. Everything has come right; all is smooth again; there is no longer cause for chagrin and never-ending fear. With Paul Rodney's death the latter feeling ceased, and Mona's greatness of heart has subdued the former. She has conquered and laid her enemy low: without the use of any murderous force the walls have fallen down before her, and she has marched into the citadel with colors flying. And by degrees, beneath her influence, Mona grows pale and distrait and in many respects unlike her old joyous self. Each cold, reproving glance and sneering word,—however carefully concealed—falls like a touch of ice upon her heart, chilling and withering her glad youth. Up to this she has led a bird's life, gay, insouciant, free and careless. Now her song seems checked, her sweetest notes are dying fast away through lack of sympathy. She is "cribbed, cabined, and confined," through no fault of her own, and grows listless and dispirited in her captivity..