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Her meaning, in spite of her, is clear; but Geoffrey doesn't dare so much as to think about it. Yet in his heart he knows that he is glad because of her words.,All the long morning and far into the afternoon, Talking Rock swept the dust this way and that, turning it over and over, in a circle that grew always wider, and just as he was about to give up the search, he found a bit of charred and blackened bone. Was this a part of his friend's frame? Was it not more likely a bit of bone of buffalo or elk, which some dog had carried from one of the fireplaces of the camp and dropped here?,"I didn't mean that, and I never hint," exclaims Mona, angrily; "and if you insist on the truth, if I must explain to you what I particularly desire to keep secret, you——","What is it, Jenkins? Speak!" says Lady Rodney, rising from her chair, and staying him, as he would leave the room, by an imperious gesture.,"I am not Mr. Rodney: Jack is that. Can't you call me anything else?",Some one comes in with a lamp, and places it on a distant table, where its rays cannot distress the dying man.,"'Sister Anne,' you mean?" says Nolly. "Oh, ay! I have seen her, though as a rule she is suppressed. She is quite all she ought to be, and irreproachable in every respect—unapproachable, according to some. She is a very good girl, and never misses a Saint's Day by any chance, never eats meat on Friday, or butter in Lent, and always confesses. But she is not of much account in the household, being averse to 'ye goode olde times.'","Tell us, Jenkins," says Nicholas, hastily.,The woman called again, "No, no; do not go on; come now and wrestle once with me.",And then she falls upon her knees again, and Geoffrey in the background, though unseen, kneels too; and Mona, in a broken voice, because she is crying very bitterly now, whispers some words of comfort for the dying.,"My dear child, don't talk like that," he says, nervously: "you're done up, you know. Come to bed.",For Geoffrey the prelude has been played, and now at last he knows it. Up and down the little hall he paces, his hands behind his back, as his wont when deep in day-dreams, and asks himself many a question hitherto unthought of. Can he—shall he—go farther in this matter? Then this thought presses to the front beyond all others:—"Does she—will she—ever love me?".