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Mona tries to say something,—anything that will be kind and sympathetic,—but words fail her. Her lips part, but no sound escapes them. The terrible reality of the moment terrifies and overcomes her. She says this in such perfect good faith that Mr. Rodney roars with laughter. "No, no," she says, drawing herself up and speaking with a touch of pride that sits very sweetly on her; "I beg you will say nothing. Mere words could not cure the wound you have inflicted.".

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"Well, well, you're a good lad at heart," says Scully, glad perhaps in his inmost soul, as his countrymen always are and will be when a compatriot cheats the law and escapes a just judgment. "Mona, look after him for awhile, until I go an' see that lazy spalpeen of mine an' get him to put a good bed undher Mr. Rodney's horse." "No;" she might in all truth have added, "because I did not care to know," but what she does say (for incivility even to an enemy would be impossible to Mona) is, "I thought perhaps you might not like it." She lifts her luminous eyes to his, and regards him fixedly as she speaks, full of hopeful excitement. Her eyes have always a peculiar fascination of their own, apart from the rest of her face. Once looking at her, as though for the first time impressed with this idea, Geoffrey had said to her, "I never look at your eyes that I don't feel a wild desire to close them with a kiss." To which she had made answer in her little, lovable way, and with a bewitching glance from the lovely orbs in question, "If that is how you mean to do it, you may close them just as often as ever you like." "Why, Mona?".