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"Yes, of course," she says, dejectedly. A cloud seems to have fallen upon her happy hour. "When did you hear that—that last singer?" she asks, in a subdued voice.,

"Don't!" says Darling, weakly. "Don't put it in that light. It's too feeble. If you said I was madly in love with your wife you would be nearer the mark, as insanity touches on it. I haven't felt so badly for years. It is right down unlucky for me, this meeting with Mrs. Rodney.",

"I am spinning flax for Betty, because she has rheumatism in her poor shoulder, and can do nothing, and this much flax must be finished by a certain time. I have nearly got through my portion now," says Mona; "and then we can go home.",

"Well, just wait till I tuck up the tail of my gown," says Mrs. Geoffrey, airily flinging her pale-blue skirt over her white bare arm.

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Lady Rodney regards him curiously, trying to read his downcast face. Has the foolish boy at last been brought to see a flaw in his idol of clay?,

"Oh, I dare say! I am not sure," says Lady Rodney, pettishly, who is rather annoyed at the idea of his going to Ireland, having other plans in view for him.,

"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.",

"It is I,—Mona Scully," she calls aloud, when she is within a hundred yards of the hiding-place. "Tim Ryan, come here: I want you."