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It is the 20th of February; already winter is dying out of mind, and little flowers are springing everywhere. "I think you had better come home," says Geoffrey, deeply angered with her. "You must not stay here catching cold." But this word comes not. In vain does the angry urn hiss. The teapot holds aloft its haughty nose for naught. The cups and saucers range themselves in military order all for nothing. Lady Rodney is dissolved in tears..

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"Is your home very beautiful?" asks she, timidly, looking at him the more earnestly in that he seems rapt in contemplation of the valley that spreads itself before him. There is triumph in her eye, and a malicious sparkle, and just a touch of rebellion. "You can hardly mean that?" says Mona, with some surprise. Miss Darling blushes. It is so long since she has given way to this weakness that now she does it warmly and generously, as though to make up for other opportunities neglected. She scrambles down off the chair, and, going up to Mona, surprises that heroine of the hour by bestowing upon her a warm though dainty hug..