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"More comfortable, at least." In truth he is. So when he has acknowledged the melancholy fact, they both laugh, with the happy enjoyment of youth, at their own discomfiture, and go back to the cottage good friends once more. "From Mr. Moore." A mischievous light comes into her face as she says this, and she laughs aloud. "But, I assure you, not as a love-token. He gave them to me when they were quite babies, and I reared them myself. Are they not lovely? I call them? 'Spice' and 'Allspice,' because one has a quicker temper than the other.".
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"How Rome and Spain would enchant you," he says watching her face intently, "and Switzerland, with its lakes and mountains!" It is a mere guess on her part,—supported certainly by many tales she has heard of this Ryan of late, but a guess nevertheless. It proves, however, to be a correct one. A man, indistinct, but unmistakable, shows himself on the top of the wall, and pulls his forelock through force of habit. Mona, seeing it, moves away from Geoffrey, and, going stealthily up to the table, lays her hand upon the pistol, that is still lying where last she left it. With a quick gesture, and unseen she covers it with a paper, and then turns her attention once more upon the two men. "I think I like no poet half so well. You mistake me," replies he, ashamed of his own surprise at her preference for his lordship beneath the calm purity of her eyes. "But—only—it seemed to me Longfellow would be more suited to you.".
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