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"You are speaking of Lady Chetwoode? Was it her that called last week?" asks Mona, timidly, forgetting grammar in her nervousness.,About half-past two next day they start for Anadale. Not Violet, or Captain Rodney, who have elected to go on a mission of their own, nor Nicholas, who has gone up to London.,For the most part these bonnie brown birds have found their way into Miss Mona's pantry, and are eaten by that little gourmand with the rarer pleasure that in her secret heart she knows that the giver of them is not blind to the fact that her eyes are faultless and her nose pure Greek.,"Where is Mona?",At this instant a soft ringing laugh, that once heard is not easily forgotten, comes from an inner room, that is carefully curtained and delicately lighted, and smites upon their ears.,"And thinks you perfection?" in an impossible tone, losing both his head and his temper completely. "He is rich, I suppose; why don't you marry him?","They didn't get on for long," he says, mournfully,—and what voice is so full of melancholy as the Irish voice when it sinks into sadness? "When the little one—Mona—was barely five years old, they went to ground; Mount Jerome got them. Fever it was; and it carried 'em both off just while ye'd have time to look round ye. Poor souls, they went to the blessed land together. Perhaps the Holy Virgin knew they would have got on badly without each other anywhere.","Very good," says Mona, indifferently, after which the woman, having straightened a cushion or two, takes her departure.,And by degrees, beneath her influence, Mona grows pale and distrait and in many respects unlike her old joyous self. Each cold, reproving glance and sneering word,—however carefully concealed—falls like a touch of ice upon her heart, chilling and withering her glad youth. Up to this she has led a bird's life, gay, insouciant, free and careless. Now her song seems checked, her sweetest notes are dying fast away through lack of sympathy. She is "cribbed, cabined, and confined," through no fault of her own, and grows listless and dispirited in her captivity.,And ne'er made sie anither,",And lady-smocks all silver white,,He turns, as though by an irrepressible impulse, to look keenly at her. His scrutiny endures only for an instant. Then he says, with admirable indifference,—.