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For the first time Mona learns she is not like this well-regulated young woman. She falls lamentably short of such excellence. She cannot bring herself to think the world of those she loves well lost for any consideration whatever. And after all—this horrid condition—it would be over in a moment. And she could run home with the coveted paper, and bathe her face in sweet cold water. And then again she shudders. Could she bathe the remembrance of the insult from her heart? "Yes, I shall say——" anxiously. "But you didn't cut your throat, after all," says Mona, with a wicked little grimace..

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He touches his hat to her, and bids her a respectful "good afternoon," but for once she is blind to his salutation. Nevertheless, she stops before him, and, in a clear voice, says, coldly,— All this she breathes forth in disjointed sentences as she rushes, like a light-footed deer, across the ploughed land into the wet grass beyond. He might have invoked Jack Robinson a score of times had he so wished, he might even have gone for a very respectable walk, before his eyes are again gladdened by a sight of Mona. Minutes had given place to minutes many times, when, at length, a figure wrapped in a long cloak and with a light woollen shawl covering her head comes quickly towards him across the rustic bridge, and under the leafless trees to where he is standing. "I bear you no illwill; you mistake me," says Mona, quietly: "I am only sorry for Nicholas, because I do love him.".