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Violet is growing as nearly frightened as good breeding will permit at the protracted sobbing, when Sir Nicholas speaks. "Mona! Do you want me to stay?" asks he, suddenly, taking her hands in his. "Tell me the truth." There is. In the distance, imbedded in trees, lies an extensive farmstead, larger and more home-like than any he has yet seen. "They didn't get on for long," he says, mournfully,—and what voice is so full of melancholy as the Irish voice when it sinks into sadness? "When the little one—Mona—was barely five years old, they went to ground; Mount Jerome got them. Fever it was; and it carried 'em both off just while ye'd have time to look round ye. Poor souls, they went to the blessed land together. Perhaps the Holy Virgin knew they would have got on badly without each other anywhere.".