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CHAPTER I.,

"But what is to be done?" asks Nicholas, distractedly, though inexpressibly cheered by these professions of loyalty and devotion. "Your people won't hear of it.",

She is distraite and silent all the morning, taking small notice of what goes on around her. Geoffrey, perplexed too, in spirit, wanders vaguely from pillar to post, unable to settle to anything,—bound by Mona to betray no hint of what happened in the library some hours ago, yet dying to reveal the secret of the panel-cupboard to somebody.,

Mona, turning, confronts the frightened group in the corner, both men and women, with a face changed and aged by grief and indignation.

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"An' a nate color too," says this woman, who is bare-footed, beneath her breath, regarding with admiration the yellow tint of the object on which she is engaged. Two pullets, feathered like a partridge, are creeping stealthily into the dairy, their heads turned knowingly on one side, their steps slow and cautious; not even the faintest chirrup escapes them, lest it be the cause of their instant dismissal. There is no sound anywhere but the soft music that falls from Mona's lips.,

"Dan? He was a fine man, surely; six feet in his stockin', he was, an' eyes like a woman's. He come down here an' met her, an' she married him. Nothing would stop her, though the parson was fit to be tied about it. An' of course he was no match for her,—father bein' only a bricklayer when he began life,—but still I will say Dan was a fine man, an' one to think about; an' no two ways in him, an' that soft about the heart. He worshipped the ground she walked on; an' four years after their marriage she told me herself she never had an ache in her heart since she married him. That was fine tellin', sir, wasn't it? Four years, mind ye. Why, when Mary was alive (my wife, sir) we had a shindy twice a week, reg'lar as clockwork. We wouldn't have known ourselves without it; but, however, that's nayther here nor there," says Mr. Scully, pulling himself up short. "An' I ask yer pardon, sir, for pushing private matters on ye like this.",

"Bless me, what an enthralling picture!" says Mr. Darling. "You make me regret all I have lost. But perhaps it is not yet too late. I say, Dolly, you are eating nothing. Have some more bread-and-butter or cake, old girl. You don't half take care of yourself.",

"And after that what will remain to you?" asks she, pale but collected. "It is bare comfort when hatred alone reigns in the heart. With such thoughts in your breast what can you hope for?—what can life give you?"