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"I should think it a long journey," says Mona, shaking her head. "Oh, may I niver agin see the light," cries this excitable damsel, rushing out to Mona, "if I iver hoped to lay eyes on yer face again! Where were ye at all, darlin'? An' I breakin' me heart wid fear for ye. Did ye know Tim Ryan was out to-night? When I heerd tell of that from that boy of the Cantys', I thought I'd have dhropped. 'Tis no good he's up to. Come in, asthore: you must be near kilt with the cowld." "I wish you would not talk of being buried," says Mona, with a sob. "There is no comfort in the tomb: there our dust may mingle, but in heaven our souls shall meet, I trust,—I hope.".
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Just now, for example, a pause occurring in the conversation, Mona, fastening her eyes upon her Grace's neck, says, with genuine admiration,— "Nolly, you are inventing," says Mrs. Geoffrey, sternly. At this voice every one starts! Mona, slipping her hand into Geoffrey's, draws him to one side; Lady Rodney rises from her sofa, and Sir Nicholas goes eagerly towards the door. The stranger is advancing slowly: he is swarthy, and certainly not prepossessing. His hair is of that shade and texture that suggests unpleasantly the negro. His lips are a trifle thick, his eyes like sloes. There is, too, an expression of low cunning in these latter features that breeds disgust in the beholder..
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