Terre Haute Weekly Gazette, Terre Haute, Vigo County, 13 July 1882 — Page 2

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THDKSDAY, JUI/i 13, 1882.

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see ner you win unaerstanu now a word 'low' could never apply to her. J.e looks quite correct, and is perfectly iovely." "You are in love," returns his mother, contemptuously. "At present you can see no fault in her but later on, when you come to compare her with other women in your own set, when you see them together, I only hope you will seo no difference between them, arid feel no regret."

Then there is another pause, rather longer than the last. Lady Rodney trifles with the fan in a somewhat excited fashion, and Geoffrey gazes, manlike, at his boots. At last his mother breaks the silence.

Is she—is she noisy?" she asks, in a faltering tone. "Well, she can laugh, if you mean that," says Geoffrey, somewhat superciliously. And then, as though overcome with some recollection in which the poor little criminal who is before the nar bore a humorous part, he lays his head down upon the mantel-piece and gives way to nearty laughter himself. "I understand," says Lady Rodney, faintly, feeling her burden is greater than she can bear. "She is, without telling, a young woman who laughs up-: roariously at everything,—-no matter what,—aiid takes good care her vulgarity shall be read by all who run."

Now, I can't explain why, but I never knew a young man who was not annoyed when the girl he loved was spoken of as a "young woman." Geoffrey takes it as a deliberate insult. "There is a limit to everything—even my patience," he says, not looking at Ins mother. "Mona is myself, and even from you, my mother, whom I love and reverence, I will not take a disparaging word of her."

There is a look upon his face that recalls to her his dead father, and Lady Rodney grows silent. The husband of her youth had been dear to her, in a way, until age had soured him, and this one of all his three children most closely resembled him, both in form and in feature hence, perhaps, her love for him. She lowers her eyes, and a slow blush—for the blood rises with difficult/ in the old—suffuses her face.

And then Geoffrey, marking all this, is vexed within himself, and, going ovef to her. lays his arm once more around her neck, and presses his cheek to hers. "Don't let us quarrel," he says, lovingly. "Oh, Geoffrey, how could you do it?" she says, reproachfully, alluding to his marriage "you whom I have so loved. What would your poor father have thought had he lived to see this unhappy day? You must have been mad." "Well perhaps I was," says Geoffrey, easily "wo are all mad on one subject or another, you know mine may be Mona. She is an excuse for madness, certainly. At all events, I know I am happy, which quite carries out your theory, because, as Dryden says, "Thews Is ii pleasure suro

In tut In tr mnd, which none but madmen know.' I wish you would not take it so absurdly to heart. I haven't married an heiress, I know but the whole world does not hinge on money." "There was Violet," says Lady Rodney. "I wouldn't have suitod her at all," says Geoffrey. "I should have bored her to ext inction, even if she had condescended to look at me, which I am sure she never would." "1 wish you had never gone to Ireland!" say's Lady Rodney, deeply depressed. \'My heart misgave me when you went, though I never anticipated such a climax to my fears. What possessed you to fall in love with her?" 'She la pretty to walk with. !, And witty to talk with,

Aiul peasant, too, tn think on.'"

quotes Geoffrey, lightly. "Are not tneso three reasons sufficient? If not, I could tell you a score of others. I may bring her down to see you?" "It will be very bitter to me, but of course you must come here," says Lady Rodney, who is afraid of the county and what it will say if it discovers she is at loggerheads with her son and his bride. But there is no welcome in her tone. And Geoffrey, greatly discouraged, yet determined to part friends with her for Mona's sake,—and trusting to the latter's sweetness to make all things straight in the future,—after a few more desultory remarks takes his de-

Sothme,

art with the understanding on sides that he and his wife are to come to the Towers on the Friday following and take up their quarters there until Leighton Hall is ready to receive them.

Getting back to the Grosvenor, he runs lightly up the stairs to the sittingroom, and, opening the door very gently, bent in a ooyisn fashion on giving her a "rise,"—enters softly, and looks around for his darling.

At the farthest end of the.room, near a window, lying back in an arm-chair, lies Mona, sound asleep.

One hand is beneath her cheek,—that is soft and moist as a child's might be in innocent slumber, —the other is thrown above her head. She is exquisite in her abandon, but very pale, and her breath comes unevenly.

Geoffrey, stooping over her to wake her with a kiss, marks all this, and also that her eyelids are tinged with pink, as though from excessive weeping.

Half alarmed, he lays his hand gently on her shoulder, and, as she struggles quickly into life again, ho draws her into his arms. I "Ah, it is you!" cries she, her face growing glad again. "Yes: but you have been crying, darling! What has happened?" "Oh, nothing," says Mona, flushing. "I suppose I was lonelv. Don't mind me. Tell me all about yourself and your visit." "Not until you tell me what made you cry." "Sure you know I'd tell you if there was anything to tell," replies she evasively. w."Tnen do so." returns he. ouita

gravely, not to oe aeceiveu uy uer very open attempts at dissimulation. "What made you unhappy in my absence?" "If you must know, it is this," says Mona, laying her hand in his and speaking very earnestly. "I am afraid I have done you an injury in marrying you." "Now, that is the first unkinn thing you have ever said to me," retorts he. "I would rather die than be unkind to you," says Mona, running her fingers with a glad sense of appropriation through his hair. "But this is what I mean: your mother will never forgive your marriage she will not love me, and I shall be the cause of creating dissension between her and you." Again tears fill her eyes. "But there you are wrong. There need be no dissensions my mother and I are very good friends, and she expects us both to come to the Towers on .Friday next."

Then he tells her all tli'o truth about his interview with his mother, only suppressing such words as would be detrimental to the cause he has in hand, and might givo her pain. "And when sne sees you all will be well," he says, still clinging bravely to his faith in this panacea for all evils.— "Everything rests with you." "I will do my best," says Mona. earnestly "but if I fail.—if after all my efforts your mother still refuses to love me, how will it be then?" "She must be harder-hearted than I think her, if she can resist j/ou," he says, fondly.

CITAPTEIt xv.

The momentous Friday comes at last, and about noon Mona and Geoffrey start for the Towers. They are not, perhaps, in the exuberant spirit that should be theirs, considering they are

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foing spend their Christmas in the of their family at all events, of Geoffrey's family, wnich naturally fot the future she must acknowledge as hers. They aro indeed not only silent, but desponding, and as they get out of the train at Greatham ana enter the carriage sent by Sir Nicholas to meet them, their hearts sink nearly into their boots, and for several minutes 110

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words pass between them. To Geoffrey perhaps the coming or-] deal bears a deeper shade as Mona hardly understands all that awaits her. That Lady Rodney is a little displeased at her sorrs marriage she can readily believe, but that she has made up her mind beforehand to dislike her, and intends waging with her war to the knife, is more than has ever entered into her gentle mind. "Is it a long drive, Geoff?" she asks, presently, in a trembling tone, slipping ner hand into his in the old fashion. "About six miles. I say, darling, keep up your spirits if we don't like it, we can leave, you know. But"—alluding to her subdued voice—"don't be imagining evil." "I don't think I am," says Mona "but the thought of meeting people for the first time makes mo feel nervous. Is your mother tall, Geoffrey?" "Very." "And severe-looking? You said she was like you." "Well, so she is and yet I suppose our expressions are dissimilar. Look here," says Geoffrey, suddenly, as if compelled at the last moment to give her a hint of what is coming. "I want to tell you about her,—my mother I mean she is all right, you know, in I every way, and very charming in gener-

al, but just at first one might imagine her a little difficult." I "What's that?" asked Mona. "Dont speak of your mother as if she were a chromatic scale." I "I mean she seems a trifle cold, un-

Slers,you

five her hand like this," taking "and "Yes, I know," says Mona, eagerly interrupting him. "And then she will put her arms round me, and kiss me just like this," suiting the action to the word. "Like that? Not a bit of it," says Geoffrey, who has given her two kisse3 for her one "you mustn't expect it. She isn't in the least like that. She will meet you probably as though she saw vou yesterday, and say, 'IIow d'ye do? "I'm afraid you've had a very long and cold drive.' And then you will say —7 ,v ..

A pause. "Yes, I shall say anxiously. "You—will—say Ilerehe breaks down ignominiously, and confesses by his inability to proceed that he doesn't i:i the least'knovv what it is sliocan say. "I know," says Mona, brightening, and putting on an air so different from her own usual unaffected one as to strike her listener with awe. "I shall say, 'Oh! thanks, quite too awfully much, don't you know? but Geoffrey and I didn't find it a bit long, and we were warm as wool all the time.'"

At this appalling speech Geoffrey'# calculations fall through, and he gives himself up to undisguised mirth. "If you say all that," he says, "there will be wigs on the green that Irish, isn't it? or something like it, and very well applied, too. The first part of your speech sounded like Toole or Brough, 1 not sure which." "Well, it was in a theatre I heard it," confesses Mona, meekly "it was a great lord who said it on the stage, so I thought it would be all right." "Great lords are not necessarily faultlessly correct either on or off the stage," ssys Geoffrey. "But, juSt for choice, I prefer them off of it. No, that will not do at all. When my mother addresses you, you are to answer her back again in tones even colder than her own, and sav—-" "But, Geoffrey, why should I be cold to your mother? Sure you wouldn't have me be uncivil to her, of all people?" "Not uncivil, but cool. You will say to her, 'It was rather better than I anticipated, thank you.' And then, if you manage to look bored, it will be quite correct, so far, and you may tell yourself you have scored one." "I may say that horrid speech, but I certainly can't prettend I was bored during our drive, because I am not," says Mona. "I know that. If I was not utterly sure of it I should instantly commit suicide by precipitating myself under the carriage-wheels," says Geoffrey. "Still—'let us dissemble.' Now say what I told you."

So Mrs. Rodney says, "It was rather better than I anticipated, thank you," in atone so icy that his is warm be-

about the drive?" says Mona. thoughtfully. "How will it be then?" "She Is safe to say something about it, and that will do Tor anything," says Rodney out of the foolishness of his hedrt.

And now the horses draw up before a brilliantly-lighted hall, the doors of which are thrown wide open as though in hospitable expectation of their coming.

Geoffrey, leading his wife into the hall, pauses beneath a central swinging lamp, to examine her critically. The footman who is in attendance 011 them has gone on before to announce their coming they are therefore for the moment alone.

Mona is looking lovely, a little pale, perhaps from some natural agitation, but her pallor only adds to the luster or her great blue eyes and lends an additional sweetness to the ripeness of her lips. Her hair is a little loose, but eminently becoming, and altogether she looks as like an exquisite painting as one can conceive. "Take off your hat," says Geoffrey, in a tone that gladdens her heart, so full it is of love and admiration and, having removed her hat, she follows him through halls and one or two anterooms until they reach the library, into which the man ushers them.

It is a verv pretty room filled with a subdued light, and with a blazing fire at one end. All bespeaks home, and warmth, and comfort, but to Mona in her present state it is desolation itself. The three occupants of the room rise as she enters, and Mona's heart dies within her, as a very tall statuesque woman, drawing herself up languidly from a lounging-chair, comes leisurely up to her. There is no welcoming haste in her movements, no gracious smile, for which her guest is thirsting, upon her thin lips.

She is dressed in black velvet, and has a cap of richest old lace upon her head. To tno quick sensibilities of the Irish girl it becomes known "without a word that she is not to look for love from this stately woman, with her keen, scrutinizing glance and cold, unsmiling lips.

A choking sensation, rising from her heart, almost stops Mona's breath her mouth feels parched and dry her eyes widen. A sudden fear oppresses her. JIow is it going to be in all the future? Is Geoffrey's—her own husband's— mother to be her enemy?

Lady Rodney holds out her hand, and Mona lays hers within it. "So glad you have come," says Lady Rodney, in atone that belies her words, and in a sweet silvery voice that chills the heart of the listener. "We hardly thought we should see you so soon, the trains here are so unpunctual. I hope the carriage was in time." "It was rather better than I anticipated, thank you," not in the haughty tone adopted by her half an hour ago,, but in an unnerved and frightened whisper.

At this remarkable answer to a very ordinary and polite question, Lady Rodney stares at Mona for a moment, and (hen turns abruptly away to greet Geoffrey. Whereupon Captain Rodney, coming forward, tells Mona he is glad to see ner, kindly but carelessly and then a young man, who has been standing up to this silently upon the hearthrug, advances, and takes Mona's hand in a warm clasp, and looks down upon her with very friendly eyes.

At his touch, at his glance, the first sense of comfort Mona has felt since her entry into the room falls upon her. This man, at least, is surely of the samo kith and kin as Geoffrey, and to him her heart opens gladly, gratefully.

1

He has heard the remarkable speech made to his mother, and has drawn his own conclusions therefrom. "Geoffrey has been coaching the poor little soul, and putting absurd words into her mouth, with—as is usual in all such cases—a very brilliant result." So he tells himself, and is, as we know, close to the truth.

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friendly, and—er—that," says Geoffrey. "Perhaps it would be a wise thing for you to make up your mind what you will say to her on first meeting her. She will come up to you, you kiiow, and I

He tells Mona she is very welcome, and, still holding her hand, draws her over to the fire, and moves a big armchair in front of it, in which he ensconces her, bidding her warm herself, and make herself (as he says with a kindly smile that has still kinder meaning'in it) "quite at home."

Then he stoops and unfastens her sealskin jacket, and takes it off her, and in fact pays her all the little attentions that lie in his power. "You are Sir Nicholas?" questions she at last, gaining courage to speak-, and raising her eyes to his full of entreaty, and just a touch of that pathos that seems of right to belong to the eyes of all Irish women. "Yes." returns he, with a smile. "I am Nicholas." He ignores the former title. "Geoffrey, I expect, spoke to you of me as 'old Nick he has never called me anything else since we were boys." "He has often called you that but," —shyly—"now that I have seen you, I don't think the name suits you a bit."

Sir Nicholas is quite pleased. There is a sort of unconscious flattery in the gravity of her tone and expression that amuses almost as much as it pleases him. What a funny child she is I and how unspeakably lovely I Will Doatie like her?

But there is yet another introduction to be gone through. From the doorway violet Mansergh comes up to Geoffrey, clad in some soft pale shimmering stuff, and holds out to nim her hand. "What a time you have been atvay!" she says, with a pretty, slow smile, that has not a particle of embarrassment or consciousness in it. though she is quite aware that Jack Rodney is watching her closely. Perhaps, indeed, she is secretly amused at his severe scrutiny.

You will introduce me to your wife?" she asks, after a few minutes, in ber even, trainante voice, and is then taken up to the big arm-chair before the lire, and introduced to Mona. "Dinner will be ready in few minutes of course we shall excuse your dressing to-night," says Lady Rodney, addressing her son far more than Mona, though the words presumably are meant for her. Whereupon Mona, rising from her chair with a sigh of relief, follows Geoffrey out of the room and up-stairs. "Well?" says Sir Nicholas, as a deadly silence continues for some time after their departure, "what do you think of her?" "She is painfully deficient positively without brains," says Lady Rodney, with conviction. "What was the answer she made me when I asked about the carriage? Something utterly outside the mark." "She is not brainless she was only frightened. It certainly was an ordeal coming to a house for tne first time to be, in effect, stared at. And she is very Younir."

THE TERRE HAUTE WEEKLY GAZETTE.

suppose she doesn't sav a worn

Anu pernaps unusea to society," puis in Violet, mildly. As she speaks she picks up a tiny feather that has clung to her gown, and lightly blows it away from her into the air. "She looked awfully cut up. poor little. thing," says Jack, kindly. "You were the only one she opened her mind to, Nick. What did she say? Did she betray the ravings of a lunatic or the inanities of a fool?" "Neither." "Then, no doubt, she heaped upon you priceless gems of Irish wit in ner mother-tongue?" "She saidfvery little but she looks good and true. After all% Geoffrey might have done worse." "Worse!" repeats his mother, in a withering tone. In this mood she is not nice, ana a very little of her suffices. "She is decidedly good to look at, at all events," says Nicholas, shifting ground. "Dont Vou think so, Violet?" "I think she is ihe loveliest woman I ever saw," returns Miss Mansergh, quietly, without enthusiasm, but with decision. If cold, she is just, and above the pettiness of disliking a woman because she may be counted more worthy of admiration than herself.

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am glad you are all pleased," says Lady Rodney, in a peculiar -tone and then the gong sounds, and they all rise, as Geoffrey and Mona once more make their appearance. Sir Nicholas gives his arm to Moua, and so begins her ilr&t evening at the Towers.

CIIAPTER XVI.

All through the night Mona scarcely shuts her eyes, so full is her mind of trouble ana perplexing thoughts. At last her brain grows so tired that she cannot pursue any subject to its end, so she lies silently awake, watching for the coming of the tardy dawn.

At last as she grows .weary for wishing for it,— 'Mornlnir fair Comes forth with pflgTlm steps In amice (fray."

Naturally an early riser, Mona slips noiselessly from her bed, lest she shall wake Geoffrey, and having accomplished her toilet without the assistance of a maid, she leaves her room, and, softly descending the staire, sallies forth into the gray and early morning.

But which way to go? To Mona all round is an undiscovered country, and for that reason possesses an indescribable charm. Finally, she goes up the avenue, beneath the gaunt and leafless elms, and midway, seeing a small path that leads she knows not whither, she turns aside and follows it, until she loses herself in the lonely wood.

Mona is happy the walk has done her

good,

and warmed her blood, and rought a color, soft and rich as carmine, to her cheeks. She ha3 followed the winding path for about an hour, briskly, and with a sense of bien-etre that only the young and godly can know, when suddenly she becomes aware that some one is following her.

She turns slowly, and finds her fellowpedestrian is a young man clad in a suit of impossible tweea. 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 trine thick, his eyes like sloes. There is, too, an expression of low cunning in these latter features that breeds distrust in the beholder.

The stranger, having come quite near, raises his head, and, seeing her, starts naturally, and comes to a stand-still. For a full lialf-minute he stares unpardonably, and then lifts his hat. Mona— who, as we have seen, is not great in emergencies—fails to notice the rudeness, in her own embarrassment, and therefore bows politely in return to his salutation.

She is wondering who he can be, when he breaks the silence. "It is an early hour to be astir," he says, awkwardly then, finding she makes no response, he goes on, still more awkwardly, "Can you tell me if this path will lead me to the road to Plumston?" "I am sorry I can tell you nothing," says Mona, shaking her head. "I was never in this wood Defore I know nothing of it." "J should know all about it," says the stranger, with a curious contraction of the muscles of his face, which it may be he means for a smile. "In time I shall no doubt, but at present it is a sealed book to me. But the future will break all seals as far at least a3 Rodney Towers is concerned."

Then she knows she is speaking to "the Australian" (as she has heard him called), and, lifting her head, examines his face with renewed interest. Not a pleasant face, by ayy means, yet not altogether bad, as she tells herself in the generosity of her heart. "I am a stranger I know nothing," She says, again, hardly knowing what to say, and moving a little as though she would depart. "I suppose I am speaking to Mrs. Rodney/ he says, guessing wildly, yet correctly, as it turns out, having heard, as all the country has besides, that thebride is expected at the Towers during the week. He has never all this time removed his black eyes from the perfect face before him with its crimson headgear. He is as one fascinated, who cannot yet explain where the fascinar tion Ties. "Yes, I am Mrs. Rodney," says Mona, feeling some pride in her wedded name, in spite of the fact that two whole months have gone by since first she heard it. "You haven't asked me who I am," says the stranger, as though eager to detain her at any cost, still without a smile, and always with his eyes fixed upon her face. It seems as though he positively cannot remove them, so riveted are they. "No she might in all truth have added, "because I did not care to know," but what she does say (for incivility to an enemy would be impossible to Mona) is, "I thought perhaps you would not like it."

Even this is a small, if unconscious, cut, considering what objectionable curiosity he evinced about her name. But the Australian is above small cuts, for the good reason that he seldom sees them. "I am Paul Rodney," he now volunteers,—''your husband's cousin, you know. I suppose," with a darkening of his whole face, "now I have told you who I am, it will not sweeten your liking forme." "I have heard of you," says Mona.

Stie

uietly. Then, pointing to that part of wood whither he would go, she says, coldly, "I regret that I cannot tell you where this path leads to. Good-morn-ing." with this she inclines her head, and without another word goes back by the

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w4 sne nas come. When she is quite gone, he pulls himself together with a jerk, draws a heavy sigh, and, thrusting his hands deep into his pockets, continues his walk.

At breakfast Mona betravs the fact that she has met Paul Rodney during her morning ramble, and tells all that has passed between him and her,—on being closely questioned,—which news has the effect of bringing a cloud to the brow of Sir Nicholas and a frown to that of his mother. "Such presumption, walking in onr wood without permission," she says, haughtily. "My dear mother, you forget the path leading from the southern gate to Plumston rood has been open to the public for generations. He was at perfect^iberty to walk there." "Nevertheless, it is very bad taste hi# taking advantage of that absurd permission, considering how he is circumstanced with regard to us," says Lady Rodney. "You wouldn't do it yourself, Nicholas, though you find excuses for him." "Oh, no, I shouldn't," he says, gently and then the subject drops.

And here perhaps it will be as well to explain the trouble that at this time weighs heavily upon the Rodney family.

Old Sir George Rodney, grandfather of the present baronet, had two sons, Geoffrey and George. He loved Geoffrey and hated George. The entail having been broken during the last generation, he made a will disinheriting the elder son. But before this George, unable to bear longer the ignominy or his position, left home. None knew where he had gone, save Elspeth, the old nurse, who nad loved Sir Launcelot, the grandfather of Geoffrey and George, when she herself was a young, rosycheeked lass.

When the dark, wayward, handsome young man went away, the heart of Elspeth went with him, and she alone perhaps knew anything of his departure. To his father his absence was a relief, and the old man made his will, leaving all he possessed—save the title and some outside property which he did not possess—to his younger son.

But when, after liis death, they came to look for the will, lo! it was nowhere to be found. Each drawer and desk and cabinet was searched to no avail, and when there came, one morning, news of the lost George's demise in Australia, the search grew languid and the will was forgotten, and Nicholas, accepting the rightful heir's death as a happy fact, ascended the throne and reigned peacefully for many years.

But again news came from Australia that the former tidings had been false. George Rodney had died only a twelve month since, and his son was coming to dispute Sir Nicholas's right to house and home and title.

And now where was the missing will? Old Elspeth was dead—and none of the old servants were alive—only the second nephew of old Elspeth, who had lived with her for many years, who had gone to Australia on her death and had not been heard from since.

And now the young man had come and they saw that he was very dark, and very morose, and very objectionable. But he seemed to have plenty of money, and when he took a shootingbox near the Towers their indignation knew no bounds.

Sir Nicholas declared his intention of being civil to him. He was his father's brother's child, and as he had committed no sin, and was only trying to reclaim his own, lie would have him recognized at least with common politeness.

And so matters stood when Mona came to the Towers.

CTIAPTEK

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XVn.

To'gain Lady Rodney's friendship is a more difficult thing than Mona in her ignorance had imagined, and she is determined to be ice itself to her poor little guest. As for her love, when first Mona's eyes lit upon her she abandoned all hope of ever gaining that.

Witn Captain Rodney and Sir Nicholas she makes way at once, though she is a little nervous and depressed, and not altogether like her usual gay insouciant self. She is thrown back upon herself, and, like a timid snail, recoils sadly into her shell.

Yet Nature, sooner or later, must assert itself ana after a day or two a ringing laugh breaks from her. or a merry jest, that does Geoffrey's heart good, and brings an answering laugh and jest to the lips of her new brothers.

Of Violet Mansergh—who is still at the Towers, her father being abroad and Lady Rodney being very desirous of having her with her—she knows little. Violet is cold, but quite civil, as Englishwomen tvill be until they know you. She is, besides, somewhat prejudiced against Mona, because—being honest herself—she has believed all the false tales told her of the Irish girl.

Of Lady Rodney's studied dislike Mona's sensitive nature could not long remain in ignorance yet, having a clear conscience, and not knowing In what she has offended,—save in cleaving to the man she loved, even to the extent of marrying him,—she keeps a calm countenance, and bravely waits what time may bring.

One day, speaking of Sir Nicholas to Lady Rodney, she had—as was most natural—called him "Nicholas." But she had been cast back upon herself and humiliated to the earth by his mother's look of cold disapproval and the emphasis

she had laid upon the "Sir" Nicholas when next.speaking of him. This had widened the breach more than all the rest, though Nicholas himself, being quite fascinated by her, tries earnestly to make her happy and at home with him.

About a week after her airlval—she having expressed her admiration of ferns the night before—he draws her hand through his arm and takes her to hi* own private sanctum,—off which a fernery has been thrown, he being an enthusiastic grower of that lovely weed.

Mona is enchanted with the many varieties she sees that are unknown to her, and, being very much not of the world, is not ashamed to express her delight. Looking carefully through all, she yet notices that a tiny one, dear to her, because common to her sweet Killarney, is not among his collection.

She tells him of it, and he is deeply interested and when she proposes to write and get him one from her native soil, he is as glad as a school-boy promised anew bat, and her conquest of Sir Nicholas is complete.

And indeed the thought of this distant fern is as dear to Mona as to him. For to her comes a rush of tender joy, as she tells herself she may soon be growing in this alien earth a green

um rruiu uer lMiueiiauu, "But I hope you will not be disap-t pointed when you see it," she savs,. gently. "You have the real Killariiey. fern, Sir Nicholas, I can see tho other I speak of, though to me almost as lovely, is not a bit like it."

She is very careful to give him his title ever since that encounter with his! mother. ft "1 shall not be disappointed. I have: read all about it," returns lie, enthusiastically. Then, as though the thought has just struck him, he says,— "Why don't you call me~ JN icholas, as Geoffrey does?'

Mona hesitates, then says, shyly, with downcast eyes.— I "Perhaps Lady Rodney would not like it." $

Her face betrays more than she knows. "It doesn't matter in the least what any one thinks on this subject," says I Nicholas, with a slight frown. "I shall esteem it a verv great honor if you will c.ill me by my Christian name. And, be-1 sides, Mona, I want you to try to care 1 for me,—to love me, as I am your brother."

The ready tears spring into Mona's' eyes. She is more deeply, passionately grateful to him for this small speech than he will ever know. "Now that is very kind of you," she says, lifting her eyes, humid with tears, to his. "And I think it will take only a very little time to love you!"

After this, she and Sir Nicholas are even better friends than they have been 5 before,—a silent bond of sympathy 5 seeming to exist between them.

Of course everybody that is anybody has called on the new Mrs. Rodney.— The Duchess of Lauderdale, who is an oM friend of Lady Rodney's, and I who is spending the winter at her coun- 5 try house to please her son the young dtike, who is entertaining a houseful I of friends, is almost the first to come.— And Lady Lilias Eaton, the serious and earnest-minded young aesthetic,— than whom nothing can be more artistically correct according to her own school,—is perhaps tho second, but to both, unfortunately, Mona is "not at home."

And very honestly, too, because at the time of their visits, when Lady Rodney was entertaining them in the big, drawing-room and uttering platitudesJ and pretty lies by the score, she was deep in the recesses of the bare brown wood, roaming hither and thither in a search of such few flowers as braved the wintry blasts.

For all this Lady Rodney is devoutly thankful. She is glad of the girl's absence. She has no desire to exhibit her, prejudice making Mona's few small defects look monstrous in her eyes. Yet these same defects might perhaps be counted on the fingers of one hand. .!

And by degrees, beneath her influ-: ence, Mona grows pale and dtetrait, 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 1 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 trows listless and dispirited in her captivity.

And Geoffrey, who is blind to nothing that concerns ner, notices all this, and secretly determines on taking her awfty from all this foolish persecution, to London or elsewhere, until such time as their own home will be ready to receive them

But at this break in my history, almost as he forms this resolution, an event occurs that brings friends to Mona, and changes in toto the aspect of affairs. li [The remaining chapters of this romance will be found in the Saturday injuen of the Ga/kttk. Rack uumbt rs can be obtained 9* this offiM.1

It Is the concurrent testimony of the publie and me medical proleMtlon, that Htmt«ttei"4 Sumach Bitters la a medicine which achieve* reaultaspeedily felt, thorough and benign. Beoides rectifying liver disorders, it invigorates the feeble, conquerx kidney and bladder complaint*, and haatenn tho eonvalescenceofilioiie recovering from enfeebling diseases. Moreover It lathe grand specific for fever and ague.

Knr sale by all Druggist* and Dealers genrally.

Preston Kean & Co.,

BANKER 3.

Bcpert Blade to the Chlc»go*Cloa lag House at the Close of ttnsl* .' ness. May 10th, 188*. r: v- ,v .iv v-r:

RESOURCES.

Time and demand loans 11,249,580 1 Bonds and Premiums

*72.198

SI

Cash and due from banks 706,9114 il Revenue stamps, lanu wurrmi a4 Ac» 18,026 N 12.641,364 70

LIABILITIES.

Capital -.I mOOO GO Dvoosita 2,423,18] 08 Undivided profits H.183 (J7 12 841,864 74

We deal in U. 8. Bonds, State, County. City and leading railroad bonds, and and other good securities.

Foreign Exchange. Issue letters of credit available in all parts of thn world.

$2

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