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No one is listening, fortunately, to this gratuitous correction, or hot words might have been the result. Sir Nicholas and Geoffrey are laughing over some old story that has been brought to their recollection by this idle chattering about the Chetwoodes' ball; Jack and Violet are deep in some topic of their own. Mona, stooping, caresses them fondly. They are a part of her old life, and dear, therefore, to her own faithful heart. Having partly undressed, she sits down upon the hearthrug with them, and, with both their big heads upon her lap, sits staring into the fire, trying to while away with thought the hours that must elapse before Geoffrey can return to her again. When it had reached the lodge it told what had happened and the father bear said, "I will go over there myself; perhaps this person will hit me over the head.".
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"Her form!" says Mrs. Geoffrey, surveying the tiny Mrs. Lennox from head to foot in sheer wonderment. "She need hardly pride herself on that. She hasn't much of it, has she?" "What's that?" asked Mona. "Don't speak of your mother as if she were a chromatic scale." "Oh, poor Nicholas!" says Mona sadly, "and poor little Doatie!" The description is graphic, certainly..
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