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"Oh, I dare say! I am not sure," says Lady Rodney, pettishly, who is rather annoyed at the idea of his going to Ireland, having other plans in view for him. "Then you are really pleased? I am just what you want me to be? Oh! how you frightened me!" says the girl, laying her hand upon her heart with a pretty gesture of relief. And Lady Rodney is very willing that it should be obliterated. Just now, indeed, it is a favorite theory of hers that she could never have been really uncivil to dear Mona (she is always "dear Mona" of late days) but for the terrible anxiety that lay upon her, caused by the Australian and the missing will, and the cruel belief that soon Nicholas would be banished from the home where he had reigned so long as master. Had things gone happily with her, her mind would not have been so warped, and she would have learned at once to understand and appreciate the sweetness of the dear girl's character! And so on..

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In ignorance of the fact that Geoffrey has been hurt in the fray, she lays her hand upon the injured arm. Instinctively he shrinks from the touch. Geoffrey's arm slips from his wife's shoulders to her rounded waist. "I never have such moments," interrupts he moodily. "He did lower them. He, too, must live; and, at all events, no persecution can excuse murder," says Mona, undaunted. "And who was so good to you as Mr. Moore last winter, when the famine raged round here? Was not his house open to you all? Were not many of your children fed by him? But that is all forgotten now; the words of a few incendiaries have blotted out the remembrance of years of steady friendship. Gratitude lies not with you. I, who am one of you, waste my time in speaking. For a very little matter you would shoot me too, no doubt!".