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The floor itself is pale, nay, almost blue. A little snow is sifted lightly on branch, and grass, and ivied wall. Each object in the sleeping world is quite distinct. "You have never told me how many people are in your house?" says Mona, presently. "Tell me now. I know about your mother, and," shyly, "about Nicholas; but is there any one else?" "Are there no servants in my house," demands she, in a terrible tone, addressing Mona a steely light coming into her blue eyes that Mona knows and hates so well, "that you must feel it your duty to guide my visitors to my presence?".

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"Yes; I stopped there for two or three days on my way down here. Well—and—your brother?" He cannot to himself explain the interest he feels in this story. She is clad in a long white dressing-gown, loose, yet clinging, that betrays each curve of her svelte, lissom figure. It is bordered with swansdown, and some rich white lace, that sits high to her neck and falls over her small hands. Her hair is drawn back into a loose knot, that looks as if it would tumble down her back should she shake her head. She is pale, and her eyes are peculiarly large and dark from excitement. They are fixed upon Rodney with a gaze that belies all idea of fear, and her lips are compressed and somewhat dangerous. "We all have regrets at times, dear boy, the very best of us," says the little doctor, blowing his nose: "who among us is faultless? And really the circumstances were very trying for you,—very—eh? Yes, of course one understands, you know; but death heals all divisions, and he is hurrying to his last account, poor lad, all too soon." "No one," says Mona. "I had no need to ask permission for anything. I was free to do what I wished.".