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"Go to her," says Geoffrey, and Mona, slipping from his embrace, falls on her knees at his mother's feet. With one little frightened hand she tries to possess herself of the fingers that shield the elder woman's face.,

"I suffer nothing: I have no pain now. I am inexpressibly, happy," replies he, with a smile radiant, though languid. Forgetful of his unfortunate state, he raises his other hand, and, bringing it across the bed, tries to place it on Mona's. But the action is too much for him. His face takes a leaden hue, more ghastly than its former pallor, and, in spite of an heroic effort to suppress it, a deep groan escapes him.,

When the people heard this they said to one another, "Ah, it is a man-wolf who has done all this. We must catch him." So they took down to the piskun1 pemmican and nice back fat and placed it there, and many of them hid close by. After dark the wolves came, as was their custom, and when the man-wolf saw the good food, he ran to it and began to eat. Then the people rushed upon him from every side and caught him with ropes, and tied him and took him to a lodge, and when they had brought him inside to the light of the fire, at once they knew who it was. They said, "Why, this is the man who was lost.",

He is, for instance, surprised, and indeed somewhat relieved, when he discovers that the drivers of the jaunting-cars that take him on his shooting-expeditions are not all modern Joe Millers, and do not let off witty remarks, like bombshells, every two minutes.

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"What is it?" she says, fearfully, and then, "Your coat is wet—I feel it. Oh Geoffrey, look at your shirt. It is blood!" Her tone is full of horror. "What have they done to you?" she says, pitifully. "You are hurt, wounded!",

"I have come," she says, simply, feeling herself growing pale, yet quite self-possessed, and strong in a determination not to offer him her hand.,

She leans back in her chair, and brings her fingers together, clasping them so closely that her very nails grow white. Her thin nostrils dilate a little, and her breath comes quickly, but no angry word escapes her. How can her lips give utterance to a speech that may wound the mother of the man she loves!,

"You would have been her henchman,—is that right, Nicholas?—or her varlet," says Dorothy, with conviction, "And you would have had to stain your skin, and go round with a cross-bow, and with your mouth widened from ear to ear to give you the correct look. All æsthetic people have wide mouths, have they not, Nicholas?"