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"Must you really go, Geoffrey?—really?" asks Mona, miserably, looking the very personification of despair. She has asked the same question in the same tone ever since early dawn, and it is now four o'clock. "I will—when I find it," returns she, with an irrepressible glance, full of native but innocent coquetry, from her beautiful eyes. "It is like a fairy-tale, and quite as pretty," says little Dorothy, who is quite safe to turn out an inveterate matchmaker when a few more years have rolled over her sunny head..
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"I don't think I understand you," she says, at length, gravely. "Where would the rest of her be, if she wasn't all in the same place?" "He is," says Dorothy, with growing animation. "I really wish," she says, presently, "you would do what I say. Go to the farm, and—stay there." The cold seems hardly to touch Mona, so wrapped she is in the beauties of the night. There is at times a solemn indefinable pleasure in the thought that we are awake whilst all the world sleepeth; that we alone are thinking, feeling, holding high communion with our own hearts and our God..
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