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"Bonuvs," says Mona, mildly, going back naturally to the Irish term for those interesting babies. "Surely," thinks Mona to herself, "this strange young man is not altogether bad. He has his divine touches as well as another." "Oh, now, Mrs. Geoffrey, come—I say—how cruel yon can be!".

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The postman himself is an institution in the village, being of an unknown age, in fact, the real and original oldest inhabitant, and still with no signs of coming dissolution about him, thereby carrying out Dicken's theory that a dead post-boy or a dead donkey is a thing yet to be seen. He is a hoary-headed old person, decrepit and garrulous, with only one leg worth speaking about, and an ear trumpet. This last is merely for show, as once old Jacob is set fairly talking, no human power could get in a word from any one else. Mona, horror-stricken, goes quickly over to her, and touches her lightly on the shoulder. "You will introduce me to your wife?" she asks, after a few minutes, in her even, trainante voice, and is then taken up to the big arm-chair before the fire, and is made known to Mona. He smiles, and, turning, kneels before her in mock humility that savors of very real homage. Taking her hand, he presses it to his lips..