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"From Mr. Moore." A mischievous light comes into her face as she says this, and she laughs aloud. "But, I assure you, not as a love-token. He gave them to me when they were quite babies, and I reared them myself. Are they not lovely? I call them? 'Spice' and 'Allspice,' because one has a quicker temper than the other." It was all terrible,—this young man coming and the thought that, no matter how they might try to disbelieve in his story, still it might be true. "Mrs. Geoffrey is incapable of making any mistake. How silent you are, old fellow!".
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"How strange it is!" says Mona's voice, that has now a faint shade of sadness in it. "How people come and go in one's lives, like the waves of the restless sea, now breaking at one's feet, now receding, now——" "Oh, it is dreadfully late!" says Mona, with much compunction. "Come, let us hurry." "It is terrible, terrible," says Mona, piteously sinking on her knees beside the bed. One of his hands is lying outside the coverlet, and, with a gesture full of tender regret, she lays her own upon it. "'Alas for the rarity.
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