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In a minute or two the whole affair proves itself a very small thing indeed, with little that can be termed tragical about it. Geoffrey comes slowly back to life, and in the coming breathes her name. Once again he is trying to reach the distant fern; once again it eludes his grasp. He has it; no, he hasn't; yet, he has. Then at last he wakes to the fact that he has indeed got it in earnest, and that the blood is flowing from a slight wound in the back of his head, which is being staunched by tender fingers, and that he himself is lying in Mona's arms. "Is your brother, Mr. Rodney, like you?" asks Mona presently. "What a strange name yours is!—Nolly," says Mona, presently..
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"Oh, my lady, if I must speak," cries the old man, "but it is terrible news to tell without a word of warning. Mr. Paul Rodney is dying: he shot himself half an hour ago, and is lying now at Rawson's Lodge in the beech wood." "This spot always brings to my mind the thoughts of other people," says Mona, softly. "I am very fond of poetry: are you?" "Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale "I am staying at a shooting-lodge called Coolnagurtheen. Do you know where that is.".
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