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"Oh—well—don't," interrupts Mrs. Geoffrey, hastily. "What nonsense some people are capable of talking!" says Violet, with a little shrug. It was on this stream near the mountains that the Piegans were camped when Mīka´pi went to war. This was long ago..
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"Yes, it is strange why that wall should be different from the others," Mona says, rather glad that he appears interested in something besides herself. "But it is altogether quite a nice old room, is it not?" "Yes; it was her that called last week," returns her amiable mother-in-law, laying an unmistakable stress upon the pronoun. And by degrees, beneath her influence, Mona grows pale and distrait and in many respects unlike her old joyous self. Each cold, reproving glance and sneering word,—however carefully concealed—falls like a touch of ice upon her heart, chilling and withering her glad youth. Up to this she has led a bird's life, gay, insouciant, free and careless. Now her song seems checked, her sweetest notes are dying fast away through lack of sympathy. She is "cribbed, cabined, and confined," through no fault of her own, and grows listless and dispirited in her captivity. "How you were all laughing when we came in!" says Violet, presently: "we could hear you all along the corridor. What was it about?".
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