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"Well for my part I hate people who sing a little. I always wish it was even less. I hold that they are a social nuisance, and ought to be put down by law. My eldest brother Nick sings really very well,—a charming tenor, you know, good enough to coax the birds off the bushes. He does all that sort of dilettante business,—paints, and reads tremendously about things dead and gone, that can't possibly advantage anybody. Understands old china as well as most people (which isn't saying much), and I think—but as yet this statement is unsupported—I think he writes poetry." "I have heard of it. A third son would be poor, of course, and—and worldly people would not think so much of him as of others. Is that so?" "It has broken out again!" she says, nervously. "I am sure—I am certain—it is a worst wound than you imagine. Ah! do go home, and get it dressed.".
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Mona, after a stare of bewilderment that dies at its birth, gives way to laughter: she is still standing on the chair, and looking down on Nolly, who is adoring her in the calm and perfectly open manner that belongs to him. "I—I should like to say good-by to Miss Mona, and thank her for all her goodness to me, before going," says the young man, rising somewhat slowly. So he has come back to her. There is triumph in this thought and some natural vanity, but above and beyond all else a great relief that lifts from her the deadly fear that all night has been consuming her and has robbed her of her rest. Now anxiety is at an end, and joy reigns, born of the knowledge that by his speedy surrender he has proved himself her own indeed, and she herself indispensable to his content. MĪKA´PI—RED OLD MAN.
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