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CHAPTER XXVIII. "Byron?" His love at this moment—which is closing upon noon—is standing in her cool dairy upon business thoughts intent yet with a certain look of expectation and anxiety upon he face,—a listening look may best express it..
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"Look at him, under that fern there!" exclaims Mona, in her clear treble, that has always something sweet and plaintive in it. "On your right—no! not on your left. Sure you know your right, don't you?" with a full, but unconscious, touch of scorn. "Hurry! hurry! or he will be gone again. Was there ever such a hateful bird! With his good food in the yard, and his warm house, and his mother crying for him! Ah! there you have him! No!—yes! no! He is gone again!" "I wish I could see it!" says Geoffrey, longingly. "Is it?" says she, a little wistfully. "You think so now; but if afterwards you should know regret, or——" "It wasn't all politics, of course," he says carefully..
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