Terre Haute Weekly Gazette, Terre Haute, Vigo County, 15 June 1882 — Page 2

MONA SCULLY-

Continued From First Page.

violently, as 13 ""liicir iiatuie to.The man, seeing Mona, breaks from the woman, and comes up to her. "Go back again, miss,'' be says, with much excitement. "They've brought him home, an'he's bad to look at. I've oeed him, an' it's given me a turn I won't forget in a hurry. Go home, I tell ye. 'Tis a sight not fit for the eyes of the likes of you."

A little foam has gathered round his lips, and his eyes are wild. Geoffrey, by a slight movement, puts himself between Mona and this man, who is evidently beside himself with some inward fear and horror. "What are ye talkin' about? Get out, ye spalpeen," says the woman, with an outward show of anger, but a warning frown meant for the man alone. "Let her do as she likes. Is it spaking of fear ye are to Dan Scully's daughter?" "Come home, Mona oe advised by me," says Geoffrey, gently, as the man skulks away, walking in a shambling, uncertain fashion, and with a curious trick of looking every now and then over his shoulder, as though expecting to see an unwelcome follower. "No, no this is not a time to forsake one in trouble," says Mona, faithfully, but with a long, shivering sigh. "I need see nothing, but I must speak to Kitty."

She walks deliberately forward and "fliers the cabin, Geoffrey closely* following her.

A strange scene presents itself to heir expectant gaze. Before them is a large room (if so it can be called), possessed of no flooring but the bare brown arth that Mother Nature has supplied. To their right is a huge fire-place, vhere, upon the hearth-stone, turf lies burning dimly, emitting the strong aromatic perfume that belongs to it. Opposite to her is a pig, sitting quite erect, ,md staring at her blankly, without the slightest regard to etiquette or nice reeling, lie is plainly full of anxiety, yet without power to express it, except so far as his tail may aid him, which is limp and prostrate, its very curl being thing of the past. If any man has impugned the sagacity of pigs, that man has erred.

In the background, partly hidden by 'he gathering gloom, some fifteen men aid one or two women, are all huddled ogether, whispering eagerly, with their 'aces almost touching. The women, hough in a great minority, are plainly laving the best of it.

But Mona's eyes see nothing but one jbject only. On the right side of the fire-place, lyng along the wall is a rude stretcher—or viiat appears to be such—on which, hrouded decently in a white cloth, lies •omething that chills with mortal fear the heart, as it reminds it of that to •.vhich we all must come some day! Beneath the shroud the murdered man ies calmly sleeping, his face smitten nto the marble smile of death.

Quite near to the poor corpse a woman its, young, apparently, and .with a

fiandsome

figure, though now it is bent

md bowed with grief. She is dressed the ordinary garb of the Irish peasant, with a short gown well tucked up, iaked feet, and the sleeves of her dress inished upwards until they almost eached the shoulder, showing the hapely arm and'the small hand that, .us a rule, belong to the daughters of •ilrin and betray the existence of the Spanish blood that in days gone by mingled with thars.

Iter face is hidden it is lying on her irms, and they ails cast, in the utter recklessness and abandonment of her rief, across the feet of him who, only yesterday, had been her "man"— her pride and her delight. "Kitty, can I do anything for you?" isks Mona, in a gentle whisper, bending ver her and talcing the hand that lies her lap between both her own, with a pressure full of gentle sympathy. "I snow there is nothing I can say but an I do nothing to comfort you?" "Thank ye, miss. Ye mane it kindly, know," says the woman wearily. 'But the big world is too small to hold me dhrop of comfort for me. He's lead, ye seel"

The inference is full of saddest meanjig. Even Geoffrey feels the tears rise mbidden to his eyes. "Poor soul! poor soul!" says Mona, brokenly then she drops her hand, and s.tie poof woman, turning again to the it'eless body, as though in the poor cold lav lies her only solace, lets ner*head all forward upon it, and, turning sorrowfully away, she drops some silver ihto the poor widow's lap whereon, fcoffrey, who has been standing close 0 her all the time, covers it with two sovereigns. "Send down to the Farm, and I will ive you some brandy," says Mona to a woman standing by, after a lengthened iaze at the prostrate form of Kitty, who makes no sign of life. "She wants t." Laying her nand on Kitty's shoulder, she shakes her gently. "Rouse ourselfj" she says kindly, yet with energy. "Try to think or something— nything except your cruel misfortune." "I have only one thought," says the voman, sullenly. "I cant bettner it. An' that is, that it was a bitther day when I first saw the light."

Mona, not attempting to Teason with "^er again, shakes her head des]ohding.y, and leaves the cabin with Geoffrey it her side.

For a little while they are silent. He thinking 'of Mona she is wrapt in N'lnembrance of all that has just passed. resently, looking at her. he discovers ant she is crying,—bitterly, though uietly. The reaction has set in, and iie tears are running quickly down her ll06ks "Mona, it has all been too much for

v,ou,"

exclaims he, with deep concern. "Yes, yes: that poor, poor woman! I .annot get her face out of my bead. flow forlornl how hopeless! She has st all she cared for there is nothing -1 fall back upon. She loved him ana have kirn so cruelly murdered for no *ime, and to know that he will never

Tain come in the door, or sit by her ^arth, or light his pipe by her fire—oh. 1 is horrible! It is enough to kill her!" :ys Mona, somewhat disconnectedly. "Time will soften her grief," says Rodney, with an attempt at soothing.

And she is young-, she will marry Tain, and form new ties." "Indeed she will not," says Mona, ingnantly. "Irish peasants very seldom that. She will,I am sure, be faithful vJ. rever to the memory of the -man she 'i vadjl

"Is that the fashion here? If—if ymi loved a man. would yon "be faithful to Mm forever?" "But how could I help it?" says Mona, simply. "Oh, what a wretched state this country is in! turmoil and strife from morning till night. And yet to talk to those very people, to mix with them, they seem such courteous, honest, loveable creatures!"

The tears are still lingering on her lashes her mouth is sad. Yet at thin instant, even us /Geoffrey is gazing at her and wondering how he shall help dispel the cloud sorrow that sits upon her brow, her whole expression changes. A merry gleam comes into her wet eyes, her lips widen and lose their lachrymose look, and then suddenly she throws up her head and breaks into a gay little laugh. "Did you see the pig," she says, "sitting up by the fire-place? All through I couldn't take my eyes off him. He struck me as so comical. There he sat blinking his small eves and trying to look sympathetic. I am convince# he knew all about it. I never saw so solemn a pig."

She laughs again with fresh delight at her own thought. The pig in the cabin had come back to her, filling her with amusement. Geoffrey regards her with puzzled eyes. What a strange temperament is this, where smiles and tears can mingle! "What a curious child you are!" he says, at length. "You are never thfc same for two minutes together." "Perhaps that is what makes me so nice," retorts Miss Mona, saucily, the sense of fun still full upon her, making him a small grimace, and bestowing upon him a bewitching glance from under her Ions dark lashes, that lie like shadows on iier cheeks. "Yes, it certainly is a charm," says Geoffrey, slowly, "but it puzzles me. I cannot be gay one moment and sad the next. Tell me how you manage it." "I can't because I dont know myself. It is my nature. However depressed I may feel at one instant, the next a passing thought may change my tears into a laugh. Perhaps that is why we are called fickle yet it has nothing to do with it it is a mere peculiarity of temperament, and a rather merciful gift, tor which we should be grateful, because, though we return again to our troubles, still the moment or two of forgetfulness soothes us and nerves us for the conflict. I speak, of course, of only minor sorrows such a grief as poor Kitty's admits of no alleviation. It will last for her life-time." "Will it?" says Geoffrey, oddly. "Yes. One can understand that," replies she, gravely, not heeding the closeness of his regard. "Many tilings affect me curiously," sho goes on, dreamily—"sad pictures and poetry, and the sound of sweet music." "Do you sing?" asks he, through mere force or habit, as she pauses. "Yes,"

The answer is so downright, so unlike the usual "a little," or "oh, nothing to signify," or "just when there is nobody else," and so onx that Geoffrey is rather taken aback. "I am not a musician," she goes on evenly, "but some people admire my singing very much. In Dublin they liked to hear me, when I was with Aunt Anastasia: and you know a Dublin audience is very critical." "But you have 110 piano?" ... "Yes, I have aunty gave me hers when I was leaving town. It was no use to her. and I loved it, I was in school at Portarlington for nearly three years, and when I came back from it I didn't care for Anastasia's friends, and found my only comfort in my music. I am telling you everything, am I not," with a wistful smile, "and perhaps I weary you?" "Weary me! no, indeed. That is one of the very few unkind things you have ever said to ran. llow could I weary of your voice? (Jo 011: tell me where you keep this magical piano." "In my own room. You have not seen that yet. But it belongs to myself alone, and I call it my den, because in it I keep everything that I hold most precious. Some time I will show it to you." "Show it to me to-day," says he, with interest. "Very well..if you wish." "And you will sing me something?" "If you like. Are you fond of singing?"

l'Very.

,^JS8I®

But for myself I Jiave no

voice worth hearing. I sing, you know, a little, which is my misfortune, not my fault don't you think so?" "Oh, no because if you can sing at all—that is, correctly, and without raise notes—you must feel music and love it." "Well, for my part I hate people who sing a little. 1 always wish it was even less. I hold that they are asocial nuisance. and ought to be put down by law. My eldest brother, Nick, sings really very charming tenor, you know,

goodwell—A

enough to coax the birds off the ushes. lie 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 vet this statement is unsupported—I think he writes poetry." "Does he really?" asks Mona, with eyes wide open. "I am sure if ever I meet your brother Nick I shall be dreadfully afraid of him." "Don't betray me, at all events. He is a touchv sort of a fellow, and might not like to think I knew that about him. Jack, my second brother, singS too. He is coming home from India directly, and is an awfully good sort, though think I should rather have old Nick after all." "You have two brothers older than you?" asks Mona, meditatively. "Yes I am that most despicable of all things, a third son." "I have heard of it. A third son wduld be poor—and worldly people would not think so much of him as of others. Is that so?"

She pauses, but for the- absurdity of the thing, Mr. Rodney would swear there is nope in her tone. "Your description is graphic^ he answers, lightly, "if faintly unkind but when is the truth civil? You are right. Younger sons, as a rule, are not run after. Mammas do not hanker after them, or give them their reserve smiles, or pull their skirts aside to make room for them on small ottomans." "That betrays the meanness of the world," says Mona, slowly and With indignation. Has not Geoffrey just declared himself to be a younger son? "Does it? I was bred in a different belief. In my world the mighty do no wrong and a third son is nowhere. He is shunted: handed on: if possible.

*1-

1

scotcnea. me sun is notmaae lor mm, or the first waltz, or caviare, or the 'sweet shady Bide' of anything. In fact, he is'the man of no account' with a vengeance!" "What a shame!" says Mona, angrily. Then she changes her note, and says, with a soft, low, mocking laugh, "How I pity you.7 "Tha

hanks. I shall try to believe yon. though your mirth is somewhat out of place, Mid has a tendency towards heartIessness." (He is laughing too.) "Yet there have been instances," goes on Mr. Rodney, still smiling, while watching her intently, "when maiden aunts have taken a fancy to third sons, and have died leaving them lots of tin." "Eh?" says Mona. rj "Tinr—money," explains he. S®."Oh, I dare say. Yes, sometimes but she hesitates, and this time the expression of her face ^cannot be misunderstood dejection betrays itself in every line—"but it is not so with you, is it? No aunt has left you anything?"

uNo-%o

He has never told her that his eldest brother is a baronet. Why he hardly knows, yet now 'ne does ni/t contradict her when she aMudes to him as Mr. Rodney. Some inward feeling prevents him. Perhaps he understands instinctively that such knowledge will but widen the breach that already exists between him and the girl who now walks beside him wi^h a happy smile upon her flower-like face. "No he is not like me," he says, abruptly "he is a much better fellow. He is, besides, tali and rather lanky, with dark eyes and hair. He is like my father, they tell me I am like my mother."

At this Mona turns her gaze secretly upon him. She studies his hair, his gray eyes, his ii regular nose—that ougnt to have knoivn better—and his handsome mouth, so resolute, yet so tender, that his fair moustache only half conceals. "I think I should like your mother," she says naively and very sweetly, lifting her eyes steadily to his. "She is handsome, of course and she is as good as she is beautiful?" "My mother is a real good sort when you know her," he says, evasively "but she's rather rough on strangers. However, she is always all there, you know, so far as manners go, and that."

Miss Mona looks puzzled. "I don't think I understand you," she says, at length, gravely. "Where would the rest or her be if slie wasn't all in the same place?"

Sho says this in such perfect good faith that Air. Rodney roars with laughter. "Perhaps you may not knOw it," says he, "but you are simply perfection." "So Mr. Moore says, returns she, smiling.

He drops her arm, and looks as though he is prepared to drop her acquaintance also, at a moment's notice. "What has Mr. Moore to do with you?" he asks, haughtily. "Who is he, that he should so speak to you?" "He is our landlord," says Mona, calmly, but with uplifted brows, stopping short in the middle of the road to regard him with astonishment. "And thinks you perfection?" in an Impossible tone, losing both his head ana his temper completely. "He is rich, I suppose why don't you marry him?" "To ask the question is a rudeness^' she says, steadily, though her heart is cold and hurt. "Yet I will answer you. In our country, and in our class," with an amount of inborn pride impossible to translate, "we do not marry a man because he is 'rich.' or in other words, sell ourselves for gold."

Having said this, she turns her back upon liim contemptuously, and walks towards her home.

He follows her, full of remorse and contrition. Her glance, even more than her words, has covered him with shame, and cured him of his want of generosity. "Forgive me, Mona," he says, with deep entreaty. "I confess my fault. How could I speak to you as I did! I implore your pardon. Great a sinner as I am, surely I shall not knock for forgiveness at your sweet heart in vain!" "Do not ever speak to me like that again," says Mona, turning upon him eyes humid with disappointment, yet free from wrath of any kind. "As for Mr. Moore," with a curl of her short upper lip that it does him good to see, ana a quick frown, "why he is as old as the hills, and as fat as Tichborne, and he hasn't got a single hair on his head."

But that Mr. Rodney is still oppressed with the fear that he has mortally offended her, he could have laughed out aloud at this childish speech but anxiety helps him to restrain his mirth.— Nevertheless he feels an unholy joy a9 he thinks on Mr. Moore's bald pate, his "too, too solid flesh," and his "many days." "Yet he dares to admire you?" is what he does say, after a decided pause. "Sure they all admire me," says Miss Mona, with an exasperating smile, meant to wither.

But Mr. Rodney is determined "te have it out with her," as he himself would say, before consenting to fade away out of her sight. "But he wants to marry you. I know he does. Tell me the truth about that," he says, with flattering vehemence. "Certainly I shall not. It would be very mean, and I wonder at you to ask the question," says Mona, with a great show of virtuous indignation. ^'Besides," mischievously, "if you know there is no necessity to tell yon anything." "Yet answer me," persists he, very earnestly. "I cant," says Mona "it would be very unfair and besides," petulantly, "it is all too absurd. Why, if Mr. Moore were to ask me to marry him ten thousand tines again. I should never sar anvumur ©n* ...

THE TERRE HAUTE WEEKL.Y GAZETTE.

aunt," returns Rodney,

speaking the solemn truth, yet conveying a lie. "I have not been blessed with maiden aunts wallowing in coin." "So I thought." exclaims Mona, with a cheerful nod, that under other circumstances, should be aggravating, so full of content it is. "At first I fea—I thought you were rich, but afterwards I guessed it was your brothers' ground you were shooting over. And Bridget told me, too. She said you could not be well off, you had so many brothers. But I like you all the better for that," says Mona, in atone that actually savors of protection, slipping her little brown hand through his arm in a kindly, friendly, lovable fashion. "Do you?" sayt Rodney. He is strangely moved he speaks quietly, but his heart is beating quickly, and Cupid's dart sinks deeper 111 its wound. "Is your brothel, Mr. Rodney, like yon?" asks Mona, presently.

A j" fc

t/'nccrascion&y she has betrayed herself. He hears the word "again" with a strange sinking of the heart. Others, then, are desirous of claiming thft wild flower for their own. "Oh, Mona, do you mean that?" he says. But Mona, who is very justly incensed, declines to answer him \ifjth civility, "I begin to think our English cousins are not famous for their veracity," she says, with some scorn. "You seem to doubt every one's word or is it mine in particular? Yet I spoke the truth. I ao not want to marry any one."

Ilere she turns ana looks him full in the face and something—it may be in the melancholy of his expression—sp amuses her that (laughter being as natural to her lips as perfume to a flower) she breaks into a sunny smile, and holds out her hand in token of amity. "IIow could you be so absurd about that old Moore?" she says, lightly.— "Why, he has got nothing to recommend him except his money and what good," with a sigh, "does that do him, unless to get him murdered!" "If he is as fat as you say, he will be a good mark for a bullet," says Mr. Rodney, genially, almost—I am ashamed to say—hopefully. "I should think they could easily pot him one of these dark nights that are coming. By this time I suppose he feels more like a grouse than a man, eh?—'I'll die game'should be his motto?" "I wish you wouldn't talk like that," says Mona, with a shudder. "It isn't at all nice of you and especially when you know how miserable I am about my poor country." "It is a pity anything should be said against Ireland," says Rodney, cleverly "it is such a lovely little spot." "Do you really like it?" says she, plainly delighted. "Oh! you should see Bantry Bay by moonlight, with its light waves sparkling beneath the gleam of the stars, and the moon throwing a path across it that seems to go on and on, until it reaches lieaven it is more satisfying than a happy dream. Do you see that hill up yonder?" pointing to an elevation about a mile distant "there I sometimes sit when the moon is full, and watch the bay below. There is a lovely view from that spot." "I wish I could see it!" says Geoffrey,

"Well, so you can," returns she, kindly. "Any night when there is a good moon come to me and I will go with you to Carrickdhuve—that is the name of the hill—and show you the bay."

She looks at him quite calmly, as one might who sees nothing in the fact of accompanying a young man to the top of a high mountain after nightfall.— And in truth she does see nothing in it. "I wonder when the moon will be full," says Geoffrey, making this ordinary remark in an every-day tone that does him credit, and speaks well for liis kindliness and delicacy of feelingl as well as for his power of discerning character. "We must see," says Mona, thoughtfully.

They have reached the farm again by this time, and Geoffrey holds out his hand to bid her good-bye. "Come in for a little while and rest yourself," says Mona, hospitably, "while I get the brandy and send it up to poor Kitty." "Don't be long," he says, impulsively, as she disappears down a passage. "I won't, then. Sure you can live alone with yourself for one minute," returns she, in very fine Irish and, with a parting smile, sweet as nectar and far more dangerous, she goes.

When sne is gone, Geoffrey walks impatiently up and down the small hall, conflicting emotions robbing him of the serenity that usually attends his footsteps. He is happy, yet full of a secret gnawing uneasiness that weighs upon him dauy, hourly. Near Mona—when in her presence—a gladness that amounts almost to perfect happiness is his apart from her is unrest. Up and down the little hall he paces, his hands behind his back, as is nis wont when deep in day-dreams, and asks himself many a question hitherto unthought of. lie recognizes the consternation his marriage to Mona would produce at home—first his mother, and then Nick, and after them Violet, who last year was asked to Rodney Towers (though she knew it not) for the purpose of laying siege to his heart. Can ne—shall he —go farther in this matter? Then this thought presses to the front beyond all others: Does she—will she—ever love me?" "Now, hurry, Bridget," says Mona's low, soft voice,—1'that excellent thing in woman.' "Don't be any time. Just give that to Kitty, and say one prayer, and be back in ten minutes and Bridget hurries away, thankful that she will have an opportunity of seeing the corpse. "Now command see my own room," says Mona, going up to Rodney, and, slipping her hand into his in a little trustful fashion that is one of her many loving ways, she leads him along the hall to a door opposite the kitchen.— This she opens, and with conscious pride draws him after her across its threshhold. So holding him, she might at this moment have drawn him to the world's end—wherever that may be!

It is a very curious little room they enter—yet pretty, withal, and suggestive of care and affection. Each object that meets the view seems replete with pleasurable memory—seems part of its gentle mistress. There are books, and some ornaments, and a huge bowl of sweetly-smelling flowers on the centretable, and a bracket or two against the walls. Some loose music is lying on a chair. "Now I am here, you will sing me something," says Geoffrey, presently. "I wonder what kind of songs you like* best," says Mona, dreamily, letting her fingers run noiselessly over the Col-, lard. "If you are like me, you like sad ones." "Then I am like you," returns he quickly. "Then I will sing you a song I was sent last week," says Mona, and forthwith sings him "1 ears Ago," mournfully, pathetic, and with all her soul, as it should be sung. Then she gives him

London Bridge," and then "RoseMarie," and then she takes her fingers from the piano and looks at him with a fOnd hope that he will see fit to praise her work. "You are an artist," says Geoffrey, with a deep sigh, when she has finished. "Who taught you, child? Kit there is no use in such a question. Nobody could teach it toyou yon must feel it as yon sing. Where do you get youf music?" wondering how "London Bridge" has found its way to this isolated spot. "The hoys send it to me. Anything

now uiav onucs out, or nnyuung think will suit my voice, they post to me at once." "The boys!" repeats he, mystified. "Yes, the students, I mean. When with aunty in Dublin I knew ever so many of tnem, and they were very fond of me." "I dare say," says Mr. Rodney, with rising ire. "Jack Foster and Terry O'Brien write to me very often," goes on Mona, unconsciously. "And indeed they all do occasionally, at Christmas, you know, and Easter, and Mid-summer, just to ask me how I am. and to tell me how they have got through their exams. But it is Jack and Terry, for the most part, who send me the music." "It is very kind of them, I'm sure," says Rodney, unreasonably jealous, as, could he have seen the said Terry's shock head of red hair, his fears of rivalry would forever have been laid at rest. "But they are favored friends.— You can take presents from them, and yet the other day when I asked you if you would like a little gold chain to hang to your mother's watch, you answered me 'that you did not require it' in such atone as actually froze mo and made me feel I had said something unpardonably impertinent." *"Oh, no says Mona, shocked at this interpretation of her manner. "I did not mean all that only I really did not require it at least"—truthfully—"not much-. And, besides, a song is not like a gold chain and you are quite different from them and besides, again,"— growing slightly confused, yet with a last remnant of courage,"thereisno rear son why you should give me anything. Shall I"—hurriedly—'''sing something else for you?"

And then she sings again, some oldworld song of love and chivalry that awakes within one a quick longing for a worthier life. Her sweet voice rings through the room, now glad with triumph, now sad with a "lovely melancholy," as the words and music sway her. Her voice is clear and pure ana full of pathos. She seems to follow no rule an "f" here or a "p" there, on the page before her, she heeasnot, but sings only as her heart dictates.

When she has finished, Geoffrey says "thank you," in a low tone. He is thinking of the last time when some one else sang to him, and of how different from this the whole scene was. It was at the Towers, and the hour, with its dying daylight, rises before liim. The subdued light of the summer eve, the open window, the perfume of the drowsy flowers, the girl at the piano with her small drooping head and her perfectly trained and very pretty voice, the room, the soft silence, his mother leaning back in her crimson velvet chair, beating time to the music with her long jeweled fingers—all is remembered. IIow pretty Mona would look in a gray and crimson room! how "What are you thinking of?" asks Mona, softly, breaking in upon his soliloquy. "Of the last time I heard any one sing," returns he, slowly. "I was comparing that singer very unfavorably with you. Your voice is so unlike what one usually hears in drawing-rooms."

He means highest praise. She accepts his words as a kind rebuke. "Is that a compliment?" wistfully. "Is it well to be unlike all the world? Yet what you say is true, no doubt. I suppose I am different from—from all the people you know." "You are indeed," in atone so grateful that it ought to have betrayed to her his meaning. But grief and disappointment have seized upon her. "Yes, of course," dejectedly. A cloud seems to have fallen upon her happy hour. "When did you hear that—that last singer?" she asks, in a subdued voice. "At home." He is gazing out of the window, with his hands clasped behind his back, and does not pay so much attention to her words as is his wont. "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. "Yes, very beautiful," thinking of the stately oaks and aged elms and branching beeches that go so far to make up the glory of the ivied Towers. "How paltry this country must appear in comparison with your own!"

ge

oes on the girl. "How glad you will to get back to your own home!" "Yes, very glad," returns he, hardly knowing what he says. He has gone back again to his first thoughts—his mother's boudoir, with its old china, and its choice water-colors that line the walls, and its delicate Indian statuettes. In his own home—which is situated about fourteen miles from the Towers, and which is rather out of repair through years of disuse—there are many rooms. He is busy now tiying to remember them, and to decide which of them would look best decked out in crimson and gray, or blue and silver he hardly knows which would suit her best. Perhaps, after all "How strange it is!" says Mona's voice, that has now a faint shade of sadness in it. "How people oome and go in one's lives, like tne waves of the restless sear—I mean how strangely people fall into one's lives and then out againl" She hesitates. Perhaps something in his face warns her, perhaps it is the weariness of her own voice that frightens her. but at this moment her whole expression changes and a laugh, forced but apparently full of gayety. comes from her lips. It is very well done indeed, yet to any one but a jealous lover her eyes would betray her. The usual softness is gone from them, and only a well suppressed grief and a pride that cannot be suppressed takes its place. "Why should they fall out again?" savs Rodney, a little angrily, hearing only her careless laugh, ana—man-like —ignoring stupidly the pain in her lovely eyes. ^Unless people choose to forget/' "One may choose to forget, but one may not be able to accomplish it. To forget or to remember is not in one's own_power." "That is what fickle people say. But what one feels one remembers." "That is true, for a time, with some. For ever-with, others."

5

"Are yon one of the others?" She makes him no answer. "Are your' she says at length, after a long silence. "I think so, Mona. There is one thing I shall never forget." "Many things, I dare say," die says, nervously, turning from him. "Why^do you ^eak of people drop.use, of course, yon will, jop

Your world is not mine."

rou cotua make it yours." "I do not understand," she says, very proudly, throwing up her head with a charming gesture. "And, talking o£ forgetfulness, do yon know what nous it is?" "You evidently want to get rid of me," says Rodney, discouraged, taking up his hat. He takes up her hand, too, and holds it warmly, and looks long and earnestly into her face. "By the bye," he says, once more re-, stored to something like hope—"by th» bye, you told me you had a miniature of your mother in your desk, and you promised to show it to me." "It is here," says Mona, rather pleased at his remembering this promise of hers, and, going to a desk, proceeds to open a secret drawer,,in which lies the picture in question.

It is a handsome picture, and Geoffrey duly admires it, then it is returned to its place and Mona, opening the drawer next to it, shows him some exquisite ferns dried and gummed on pip6r* "What a clever child you are!" says Geoffrey, with genuine admiration.— "And what is here?" laying his hand on the third drawer. "Oh, do not open that—do not!" says Mona, hastily, in an ,agony of fear, to judge by her eyes, laying a deterring hand upon Ills arm. "Ana why not this or any other drawer?" says Rodney, growing pale. Again jealousy, which is a demon, rises in nis breast, and thrusts out all gentler feelings. Her allusion to Mr. Moore,, most innocently spoken, and later on her reference to the students, have served to heighten within him angry suspicion. "Do not!" says Mona, again, as though fresh words are impossible to her, drawing her breath quickly. Her evident agitation incenses him to the last degree. Opening the drawer impulsively. he gazes at its contents.

Only a little withered bunch of heather, tied by a blade of grass! Nothing more. "Yes," she says, with cheeks colored to a rich carmine, and flashing eyes, and lips that quiver in spite of all her efforts at self control, "that is the bit of heather you gave me, and that is the grass that tied it. rkept it because it reminded me of a day when I was happy. Now," bitterly, "I no longer caro for it for the future it can only bring back to me an hour when I was grievea and wounded."

Taking up the hapless heather, she throws it on the ground, and, in a fit of childish spleen, lays her foot upon it and tramples it out of all recognition.— "Go!" she says, in a choked voice, and with a little passionate sob, pointing to the door. "You have done mischief enough." Iler gesture is at once imperious and dignified. Then in a softer voice, that tells of sorrow, and with a deep sigh, "at least," she says, "I believed your honor."

The reproach is terrible, and cuts him to the heart. He picks up the poor lit-.?, tie bruised flower, and holds it tenderly in his hand. "JIow can I go," he says, without daring to look at her, "until, at least, I ask forgiveness? Mona, love makes one cruel I ask you to "remember that, be-* cause it is my only excuse," lie says, warmly. "Don't condemn me altogether, but forgive me once more." "I am always forgiving you, it seems to me," says Mona, coldly, turning from him with a frown. "And as for that heather," facing him again, with eyes shamed but wrathful, "I just kept it because—because—oh, because I didn't like to throw it away. That was all." "You musn't think I supposed you kept it f6r any other purpose, he says, solemnly, and in such a depressed tone that Mona almost feels sorry for him.

He has so far recovered his courage that he has taken her hand, and is now holding it in a close grasp: and Mona, though a little frown still lingers on her low, broad forehead, lets her hand so lie without a censure. "Mona, do be friends with me," he says, at last, desperately, driven to simplicity of language through his veiy miseiy. There is a humility in his speech that pleases her. "It is really hardly worth talking about," she says, grandly. "I was foolish to lay so great a stress on such a trifling matter. It doesn't signify, not in the least. But—but," the blood mounting to her brow, "if ever you speak of it again—if you even mention the word 'heather'—I shall hate you!" "That word shall never pass my lips again in your company—never, I swear1" says he, "until you give me leave. My darling," in a low tone, "if you could only know how vexed I am about the whole affair, and my unpardonable conduct! Yet, Mona, I will not hide from you that this little bit of senseless heather has made me happier than I have ever been before."

Stooping, he presses his lips to her hands for the first time. The caress is long and fervent. "Say I am quite forgiven," he pleads, earnestly, his eyes on ners. "Yes. I forgive you," she says, almost in a whisper, with a seriousness that amounts to solemnity.

Still holding her hand, as though loath to quit it, he moves towards the door but before reaching it she slips away from him, and says "good-bye" rather coldly. "When am I to see you again?" says Rodney, anxiously. "Oh. not for ever so long," returns she, with much and heartless unconcern. (His spirits sink to zero.) "Certainly not until Friday," she goes on, carelessly. (As this is Wednesday, his spirits once more rise into the seventh heaven.) "Or Saturday, or 8unday, or perhaps some day next week," she says, unkindly. "If on Friday night there is a good moon," says Rodney, boldly, "will you take me, as you promised, to see the Bay?" "Yes, if it is fine," says Mona, after a faint hesitation.

Then she accompanies him to the door, but gravely, and not with her accustomed gayety. Standing on the door step he looks at her. and. as though impelled to ask the question because of her extreme stillness, he says, "Of what areyou thinking?" "I am thinking that the man we saw before going into Kitty's cabin is the murderer!" she says, with a shudder. "I thought so all along*" says Geoffrey, gravely. [The remaining chapters of this romance will be found in she Saturday issues of the GAZETTE. Back numbers can be obtained aftthiaflffeej

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