Terre Haute Weekly Gazette, Terre Haute, Vigo County, 3 August 1882 — Page 2

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IOWS

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THUB6DAYtJAUGIJpT $t188&

MOM.SCOLLf.

Continued From First Fnge.

*4 ».••

and nobody dares ask, lest he tall betray his ignorance. Nolly, I reret to sav" gives way to emotion of a ivolous kind, and to cover ft blows is nose sonorously. Whereupon Geofev, who is supernaturallv gravex asks acly Lilias if she will walk with him as ir as the grotto. "How could you laugh?" says Mona, proachfully. "How couldn't I?" replies he. "Come, us follow it up to the bitter end." "I never saw anything so clean as the alks," says Mona, presently "there not a leaf ro a weed to be seen, yet have gone through so many of them, vow does she manaire it?" "Don't you know?' says Mr. Darling, mysteriously. "It is a secret, but I IOW you can be trusted. Every mornearly she has them carefully swept ith tea-leaves to keep down the dust, id if the tea is strong it kills the oaAB \JvUw« Then they do the grotto, and then La-

Lilias once more leads the way inH)T9. "I want you to see my own work," ~\e says, going up markedly to Mona. ram glad my garden has pleased you. xiuld see by your eyes how well you ipreciated ft. To see the

beautiful

eaoieauy.ttL jnvna. remaps.

1

greets mem an wic.n a solemn corilitv that impresses everybody but Mowlio is gazing dreamily into the ty eves of her hostess andw ondering guely if her lips have ever smiled, -r hoste&s in refcnrn is gazing at her., rhaps in silent Admiration of her soft .•eliness. 'You will come first and see Philip's"' she says, in a slow, peculiar tone it sounds as if it had been dug up (1 is quite an anticiue in its own way. savors of dust ana feudal days. Every says he ©r she -will be -delighted, all try to look as if the entire hope their existence is centered in trie ought that they shall soon lay longing es on Phjlippa,—whose name is in re.ty Anne, but who has been re-christ-ed by her enterprising sister. Anne all very well for. every-day life, or for ue-beard's sister-in-law but Philippa art to the very highest description. So lilippa she is, poor soul, whetlier she .es it or not. She lias sprained her ankle, and is lying on a eouch in a small draw-^-roo'iji as the Rodneys are ushered in. is -ather glad to see them, as life th -ja intense" sister is at times tryj, ai& *tie ritualistic curate is from mc. So she smiles upon them, and images to look as amiable as plain ople ever can look. The drawing-room is very much the me as the ordinary run of drawingoms, at which Mona feels distinct disijiointment. until, glancing at Lady lias, she notices a shudder of disgust through her frame. "I really cannot help it," she explains

Mona, in her usual slow voice, "it all Tends rne so. Hut 1'hilippa must be imored. All these glaring colors and leous pieces of furniture take my eath away. And the light By id by you must come to some of my oms but lirst, if you are not tired, I lould .like you to look at my garden at is, if you can endure the cold." They don't want to endure the cold it what can they say? Politeness fords secession of any kind, and, after a words with the saintly Philippa* ey follow their guide in all meekness rough halls and corridors out in,to the rden she most affects. And truly it iB a very desirable parti, and well worth a visit. It is like a ought from another age. Yew-trees—grown till they form high lis—are cut and shaped'In prim and rfect order, some like the walls of anient Troy, some like steps of stairs, ttle doors are opened through them, id passing in and out one walks on a mile almost, until one loses one's ay and grows puzzled how to extricate ie"s self from so charming a maze. Here and there are basins of water on hicli lilies can Ire and sleep dreamily rough a warm and sunny day. A sunal, old and green with honorable age, rears itself upon a chilly bit of sward, ear it lie two gaudy peacocks fast leep. All seems far from the world, owsy, careless, indifferent to the eals and woes of suffering humanity. "It is like the garden or the palace here the Sleeping Beauty dwelt," hispers Mona to 2s oily she is delight1, charmed, lost in Admiration. "You are doing it beautifully keep up," whispers he back "she'll give something nice if you sustain that ok for five minutes longer. Now!— ie is looking ihurry—make h&ste—put on again!" "I am not pretending." says Mona, dignantlv -"J am delighted. It is the ost enchanting jplace I ever saw. eallv lovely," "I didn't think it was in you," deares Mr. Darling, with wild" but supessed admiration. "You would make air fortune on the stage. Keep it up, tell you it wouldn't be better." "Is it possible you see nothing to adire?" says Mona, with intense disgust. "I do. 'More than I can express. I you," retorts he at which they both ve way to merriment, causing Geo/PV. wlio is walking with Lady Lilias, dodge behind her back and' bestow on them an annihilating glance that oily afterwards describes as a "lurid .are." The hound stalks on before them the "acocks wake up and rend the air with discordant scream. Lady Lilias, comig to the sun-dial, leans her arm upon and puts her head in the right posion. A snail slowly traveling across a oad ivy-leaf attracts her attention ie lifts it slowly, leaf and all, and diets attention to the silvery trail it has ft behind it. "How tender! how touching!" she ».ys, with a pensive smile, raising her urinous eyes to Geoffrey whether it the snail, or the leaf, or the slime, mt is tender and touching, nobody

in

erything, that is the only true rerion." She smiles her careful absent .jile again as she savs this, and

Ming rrme

to net religion, she is noting "HUe Deanful" in her Irish gtfest. With Philippa the# have tome teal and then again follow their iwfefatiga* tile hostess to & distant apartment that seems more or less to Tut out from the house, and was in olden days a tiny chapel or oratory.

It is an octagon chamber of the most uncomfortable description, but no doubt artistic, and above all praise, according to some lights. To outsiders it presents a curious appearance, and might by the unlearned be regarded as a jumble" of all ages, a make-up of objectionable bits from different centuries but to Lady Lilias and her sympathizers it is simply perfection.

The furniture is composed of. oak of the hardest and most severe. To sit down would be a. labor of anything but love. The chairs are strictly Gothic. The table is a marvel within itself for ugliness and inutility.

There are no windows but in their place are four unpleasant slits about two yards in length, let into the thick walls at studiously unequal distances. These are filled up with an opaque substance that perhaps in the Middle Ages was called glass.

There is no grate, and the fire, which has plainly made up its mind not to light, is composed of Yule-logs. The floor is shining with sand, rushes having palled on Lady Lilias.

Mona isquite pleased. All is new, whicli in itself is a pleasure to her, and the Handed floor carries her back on the instant to the old parlor at home, which was their "best" at the Farm. "This is nicer than anything," she says, turning in a state of childish enthusiasm to Lady Lilias. "It is just like the floor in my uncle's house at home." "Ah! indeed! How interesting!" says Lady Lilias. rousing into something that very nearly borders on animation. "I did not think there was in England another rooni like this." "Notia England, perhaps. When I spoke I was thinking of Ireland," says Mona. "Yes,"" with -calm surprise. "I—I have heard of Ireland, of course. Indeed. 1 regard the older accounts of it as very deserving of thought but I had no idea the more elevated aspirations of modern times had spread so far. So this room reminds you of your uncle's?" "Partly," says Mona. "Not altogether there was always a faint odor of pipes about "Uncle Brian's room that does not belong to this." "Ah! Tobacco! First introduced by Sir Waller ltaleigh." murmurs Lady Lilias, musingly. "Too modern, but no doubt correct and in keeping. Your uncle, then,"'—looking at Mona,—"is beyond question.an earnest student of our

"A—-student?" says Mona, in a degree puzzled. Doatie and Geoffrey have walked to a distant slit Nolly is gazing vacantly through another, trying feebly to discern the landscape beyond. Lady Rodney is on thorns. They are all listening to what Mona is going to say next. "Yes. A disciple, a searcher after truth," goes on Lady Lilias, in her Noah's Ark tone. "By a student I mean one who studies, and arrives at perfection—in time." "I don't quite know," gays Mona, slowly, "but what Uncle Bvlan princi-' pallv studies is—pigs!" "Pigs!" repeats Lady Lilias, plainly taken aback. "Yes pigs!"says Mona, sweetly.

There is a faint pause,—so faint that Lady Rodney is unable to edge in the saving clause she would fain have uttered. Lady Lilias, recovering with wonderful spirit from so severe a blow, comes once more boldly to the front.— She taps her white taper fingers lightly on the table near her. and says, apologetically,—lAie .apology being ,meant for herself,— "Forgive me that I showed surprise. Your uncle is more advanced than I had supposed. He is right. Why should a pig oe esteemed less lovely than a stag? Nature in its entirety can know no blemish. Th« fault lies with us. We are creatures of Tiatiit we have chosen to regard the innocent pig as a type of ugliness for generations, and now find it difficult to see any beauty in it." "Well there isnx much, is there?" says Mona. pleasantly. "No doubt education, and a careful study of the animal in question, might betray much to m~ says Lady Lilias. "We object to the uncovered hide of the pig. and to his small eyes: but can they not see as well as those of the fawn, or the delicate lap-dog we fondle on our knees? It is unjust that one animal should be treated with les3 regard than another." "But yon couldnt fondle a pig on your knees," says Mona, who is growing every minute more and Wore mixed. "No, no but it should* be treated with courtesy. We were speaking of the size of its eyes Why should they be despised? Do we not often in our ignorance and narrow-mindedness cling to paltry things and ignore the truly great? The tiny diamond that lies in the hollow of our hands is dear and precious in our sight, whilst we fail to tind beauty in the huge boulder that is after all far more worthy of regard, with its lights and shades, its grand ruggedness, and the soft vegetable matter that decks its aged sides, rendering their roughness beautiful."

Here she gets completely out of her depths, and stops to consider from whence this train of thought sprung. The pig is forgotten,—indeed, to get from pigs to diamonds and back again is not an easy matter,—and has to be searched for again amidst the dim- recesses of her brain, and if possible brought to the surface.

She draws up her tall figure to its ut-, most height, and gazes at the raftered ceiling to see if inspiration can be drawn from thence. But it /ails her. "You were talking of pigs," says Mona. gently.

Ah! so I was," says Lady Lilias, with a sigh of relief she is quite too intense to feel any of the petty vexations of ordinary mortals, and takes Mona's help in excellent part. "Yes, I really think there is loveliness in & pig when surrounded by its offspring, have seen them once or twice, and I think the little pigs—the—the "Bonuvs," says Mona, mildlv, going back naturally to the Irish term for those interesting babies. "Eh?" says Lady Lilias. "Bonuvs,!" repeats Mona, a little louder, at which Lady Rodney sinks into a chair, as though utterly overcome. N oily and Geoffrey are convulsed with laughter. Doatie is vainly endeavori&g to keep them order. 1

THE TERRK HAUTE

'fr'1

At this$lom laughs mwestj-Jffttedly ancr Lady Rodney, rising hurriedly, afrys,— "Dear Lady Lilias, I think we have at last nearly taken in nearly all the beauties of your charming ro'om. I fear," with much suav^tv, "we mustbejnoing!?' "Oh, hot y«t,"savs LadvLilias, With the nearest attempt at vouthfulness she lias yet made. "frs. Rodney has not half seen all my treasures."'

Mrs. Rodney, hovfevpr, has

vl.stlietic,

thistle."

as

yet

CHAPTER

WEEKLY

a0ne

'been

for­

aging on her'owft account fturiafg. this brief interlude aiul now brings triumphantly to light a little basin filled with early snowdrops. "Snowdrops—and so sooiv" she says, going up to Lady Lilias. and looking quite happy over her discovery. "We have nofie yet at the Towers.-" "Yes, they* are rtrotitv hut insignificant," says tlTe

contemptu­

ously. "Paltry children of the earth, not to be compared with the lenten or tiger lily, or the fiercer beauty of the sunflower, or the hues of the unsurpassable thistle." "I am very ignbrrfnt, Know," savs MTS. (it'ofTjnjy. with her sunny smife, "but I think I should prefer a "snowdrop to a

"You have not gone into it," Bays Lady lias, regretfully. "To you Nature is

a blank.

The exquisite

purple of the statelv thistle, that by the scoffer is caded dull, is not understood by yoii. Nor does your heart swell beneath the influence of the rare and perfect green of its leaves, which doubtless the untaught deemed soiled. To fully appreciate the yiehlings and gifts of earth is a power given onlv to some." She bows her head, feeling a modest pride in the thought that she belongs to the happy "some." "Ignorance," she says, sorrowfully, "is the gteatest enemy of our cause." "I am afraid you must class me with the ignorant," savs Mona, shaking her pretty head. "I know nothing at all about thistles, except that donkeys love them." "is this,

ran

this be premeditated, or

is it a fatal slip pf the tongue? Lady Rodney turns pale, and even Geoffrey and Nolly stand aghast. Mona alone is smiling unconcernedly into Lady Lilias's eyes, and Ladv Lilias, after a brief second, smiles back at Jier. It is plain the severe young woman in the sage-green gown has not even noticed the dangerous remark. '•'You must come again very soon to see me." she says to Mona, and then goes with her all along the halls and passages, and actually stands upon the door-steps until they'drive away. And Mona kisses her/hands gayly to hpras they turn the corner of the avenue, and then tells Geoffrey that she thinks he has been very hard on Lady Lilias. because, thotigli she is plainly quitevmad, poor thing, there is certainly nothing to be disliked about her. ».d

J. u»

•4

XXV.

It is ten days later—ten dreary, interminable days, that have struggled into light, and sunk back again into darkness, leaving no trace worthy of remembrance in their train.

To-day is cool, and calm, and bright. Almost one fancies the first faint breath of spring has touched orie's cheek, though as yet January has not wended to its weary close, and no smallest sign of growth "or vegetation makes itself felt.

The grass is still brown, th« trees ban*en, no ambitious flowret thrusts its head above the bosom of its mother earth,—except, indeed, those "floures white and rede, soch as men callen daisies." that always seem to beam upon the world, no "matter how the wind blows.

Just now it is blowing softly, delicately, as though its fury of the night before had been an hallucination of the brain. It is "a sweet and passionate wooer," says Longfellow, and lays siege to "the blushing-leaf." There are no leaves for it to Kiss to-day so it bestows caresses upon Mona as she wanders forth, close guarded by her two stanch hounds that follow at ner heels.

Over the fheadows and into the wood goes Mona, to where a streamlet runs that is hex special joy,—being of the garrulouR ana babbling order, which is, perhaps, the nearest approach to divine music that nature can make. But today the stream is swollen, is enlarged beyond all recognition, and, being filled with pride at its own promotion, has forgotten its little loving song, and is rushing onward with a passionate' roar to the ocean.

A loose stone that has fallen from its home in the mountain-side above uprears itself in the middle of this turbu-! lent stream. But it is too far from the I edge, and Mona, standing irresolutely on the brink, pauses, as though half afraid to take the step that must either land her safely on the other side or else precipitate her into the angry little river.

As she thus ponders within herself, Spice and Allspice, the two dogs, set up a simultaneous howl, and immediately afterwards a voice says, eagerly,— "Wait, Mrs. Rodney, let me help you across."

Mona starts, and, looking up, sees the Australian coming quickly towards her. I

You are very kind. The river is, greatly swollen,,Tshe says, to gain time, Geoffrey, perhaps, will not like her to accept any civility at the hands of this common enemy. I "Not so much so that I cannot help you to cross over in safety, if you will only trust yourself to me." replies he. I

Still she hesitates, and he is not slow to notice the eloquent pause. "Is it worth so much thought?" he, says, bitterly. "It surely wilT not in-! jure vou fatally to lay your hand in mine tor one instant." "You mistake me," says Mona, shocked at her own want of courtesy and then she extends to him her hand, and, setting her foot upon the huge stone, springs lightly to his side.

Once there she has to go with him down the narrow woodland path, there being no other, and so paces on, silently, and sorely against her will. "Sir Nicholas has sent me an invitation for the 19th he says, presently, when the silence has become unendurable. "Yes," says Mona, devoutly hoping he is going to say he means to refuse it. But such devout hope is wasted. "I shall go," he says, doggedly, as though divining her secret wish. "T sun sure we shall all he verv olad."

6AZETTE.

1 arte gays, ltunuy, ieeuig,nen*a* ix/ubu

CHicijlt.V says11/, mXesome remark,'

r*r— v—as."" says

Lady Lihas,'Courteously.- "Well, as I was saying, in spite of tnefr tails, they really area te nett v. '1

to mafre some remark,. & "T&anksP'jreturns fit. With air irdjQcal laugh. "How exceedingly wtU yopr tone agrees Mth your words!" 3

Another pause. Mona lis on worrit. Will the branching path, that may give her a chance Jf*escaping a further

a-tete

tete-

with Tiim, never be rr*a«hed? "So Warden failed .you?" he says, presently, alluding to old Elspetn's

—so far," returns she, Coldly.

"It was a feeble effort," declares he, contemptuously, striking with hia cane the trunks of the trees ps he goes by jthem. ."Yet I think Warden knows mora tnan he cares to tell," says Mona, at a venture. Why, she herself hardly knows.

He turns, as though by im irrepressible impulse, to look keenly at her. His scrutiny endures only for an instant. Then he says, with admirable indifference.— "You have grounds for saying so, of course?" "Perhaps I have. Do you deny I am in the right?" asks she, returning his gaze undauntedly.

He drops his eyes, and the low, sneering laugh she has learned to know and to hate so much again comes to his lips. "It would be rude to deny that," ho says, with a slight shrug.

UI

am suer

you are alwavs in the right." "If I am. Warden surfely knows more about the will than he has sworn to." "It is very probable,—if there ever was such a will. How should I know? I have not cross-examined Warden on this or any other subject. He is an overseer over my estate, a mere servant —nothing more." "Has he the will?" asks Mona, foolishlv, but impulsively. "lie may have, ana a stocking full of gold, and the roc's egg, or anything else, for aught I know. I never saw it. They tell me there was an iniquitous and unjust will drawn up some years ago by' old Sir George that is all I know.* "By your grandfather!" corrects Mona, in a peculiar tone. "Well, by my grandfather, if you so prefer it," repeats he, with much unconcern. "It got itself, if it ever existed, irretrievably lost, and that is all any one knows about it."

Mona is watching him intently. "Yet I feel sure—I know," she says, tremulously, "you are hiding something from me. Why do you not look at me when vou answer my questions?"

At this his dark face flames, and his eyes, instinctively, yet almost against his will, seek hers. "Why?" he says, with suppressed passion. "Because each time I do, I know mvself to be—what I am! Your truth-: ful eyes are .mirrors in which my heart lies bare." With an effort he recovers himself, and, drawing his breath quickly, gro\ys calm again. "If I were to gaze at you as often as I should desire, you would probably deem me impertinent," he says, with a lapse into his former half-msolent tone. "Answer me," persists Mona, not heeding—nay, searcely hearing his! last speech. "You said once it Wodld be difficult to lie to me. Do j'oii know anything of this missing will?" "A great deal. I should. I have heard of almost nothing else since rriy arrival in England," replies he, sldwly:

Ah! Then you refuse .to answer me," saysMona. hastily, if somewhat wearily. lie makes no reply. And for a full minute no word is spoken between them.-

Then Mona goes on quietly: & "That nigllt at Chetwoode yrtu made use of some words that 1 have never forgotten since."lie is plainly surprised. He is indeed

?rom

lad. Ilis face changes, as if by magic, sullen gloom to pleasurable anticipation. "You have remembered something that I sjiid, for eleven days?" he says, quicklv. "Yea. When talking then of supplanting Sir Nicholas at the Towers, you spoke of your project as a 'splendid scheme.' What did you mean by it? I cannot get the words out of my head since. Is 'scheme' an honest word?"

Her tone is only too significant. Hia face has grown black again. A heavy frown sits ©n his brow. "You are not, perhaps, aware of it, but your tone is insulting," he begins, huskily. "Were you a man would give you an answer, now, here bpt as it is I am of course tied hand and foot. You can say to me what you please. And I shall bear it. Think as badly of me as you will. I am a schemer, a swindler, what you will!" life "Even in my thoughts I h'ever Applied those words to you," says' Mona, earnestly. "Yfet some feeling here"—laying her hand upon her heart—"compels me to believe yoii are not dealing fairly by us." To her there is untruth in every line-of his face, in every tone of his voice. "You condemn me without a hearing, swayed by the influence of a carefully educated dislike," retorts he: 'Aln4 for thfe rarity

Of Cbiletian charity #e Under tiie iual*

But I blame the people you have fallen among.-^-not you." "Blame no one," says Mona. "But if there is anything in your heart to condemn you, then pause before you go further in this matter of the Towers." "I wonder you are not afraid of going too far." he puts in, warningly, his dark eyes flashing. "I am afraid of nothing," says Mona, simply. "I am not half so much afraid as you were a few moments since, when you could not let your eyes meet mine, and when you shrank from answering me a simple question. In my turn I teil you to pause before going too far." "Your advice is excellent," says he, sneeringly. Then suddenly he stops short before her, and breaks out vehemently: "Were I to fling up this whole business and resign my chance, and leave these people in possession, what should I gain by it?" demands he. "They have treated me from the beginning with ignominy and contempt. You alone have treated me with common civility and even you they have tutored to regard me with averted eyes." "You are wrong," says Mona, coldly. "They seldom trouble themselves to speak of you at all." This is crueller than she knows. "Why dont I hate you?" he says, with some emotion. "How bitterly unkind even the softest, sweetest women can bel Yet there is something about you that subdues me and renders hatred impossible. If I had never met you, I should be a bannier man."

"Raw can yod oe nfmtov wun a wwgut. pon'-your heart?" earn Mona, fo9^wig otrt her own thoughts irrespective of "glv^p wis project, and peaqe

INojjrfufll ptjssuQlt tortts end," turns flfe, with slow malice, that makeS her heart grow coKL, "until the day comes that shall enable me to plant my heel upon these aristocrats and crush them out of recognition." "And after that what will remain to your' asks she, pale but collected. "It is bare comfort when hatred alone reigns in the heart. With such thoughts in your heart what can you hope for?— what can life give you?" "Something," replies he, with a short laugh. "I shall at least see you again on the 19th."

He raises his hat, and turning abruptly away, is soon lost to sight round the curve "in the winding pathway. lie walks steadily and with an unflinching air, but when the curvd has hidden him from her eyes he stops short, and sighs heavily. "To love such a woman as that, and be beloved by her. how it would cliange a man's whole nature, no matter how low he may have sunk," he says, slowly. "It would mean salvation! But as it is —No, I cannot draw back now it is too late."

Meantime. Mona has gone quickly back to the Towers, her mind disturbed and unsettled. Has she misjudged him? Is it possible that his claim is a just one after all, and that she has been wrong in deeming hini one who might defraud his neighbor?

She is sad. and depressed before she reaches, the hall door, where she is unfortunate enough to find a carriage just arrived, well filled with occupants eager to obtain admission.

They are the Carsons, mustered in force, and, if anything, more noisy than usual. "How d'ye do, Mrs. Rodney? Is Lady Rodney pt nome? I hope so, says Mrs. Carson, a fat. florid, smiling, impossible person of fifty.

Now, Lady Rodney is at home, but, .having given strict orders to the servants to say she is anywhere else they like,—that is. to tell as many lies as will save her from intrusion,—is just now reposing calmly in the small drawingroom, sleeping* the sleep of the just, unmindful of the coming evil.

Of all this Mona is unaware though even were it otherwise I doubt if a lie could come trippingly to her lips, or a nice evasiort be balanced there at-a moment's notice. Such foul things as untruths are unknown to her and nave no refuge in her heart.

As things are, however, she is able to smile pleasantly at Mrs. Carson, and tell her in her soft voice that Lady R6dney is at home. "How fortunate!" says that fat woman, with her broad, expansive grin that leaves her all mouth, with no eyes or Rose to speak oL "We hardly dared

hope for such good luck this charming dav." She doesn't put any "g" into her "charming," which, however, is neither here nor triere, and is perhaps a shabby thing to take notice of at all.

Then she and her two daughters quit che "coach "as Carson

Eestows

pere

insists on

calling the landau, and flutter through the halls and across the corridors, after Mona, until they reach the room that contains Lady Rodney.

Mona throws open the door, and the visitors sail in. all open-eyed and smiling, with their very rest company manners hung out for the dav.

But almost on the threshold they come to a full stop, to gaze irresolutely aJjone another, and then over their shoulders at Mona. She, marking their surprise, comes hastily to the front, and so makes herself acquainted with the cause of their delay.

Overcome by the heat of the fire, her luncheon, and the blessed certainty that for this one day at least no one is to be admitted to lier presence. Lady Rodney has given herself up a willing victim to the child Somnus. Iier book—that amiable assistant of all those that court siestas—has fallen to the ground.' Her cap i& somewhat awry. Her mouth is partly* open, and a snore—gentle, indeed, but distinct and unmistakable— comes from her patrician throat.

It is a moment never to be forgotten! Mona. horror-stricken, goes quickly over to lier, and touches her lightly on the shoulder. "Mrs. Carson has come to see you," she says, in an agony of fear, givipg her a little shake. "Eh? What?" asks Lady Rodney, in a dazed fashion, yet coming back to life with ^amazing rapidity. She sits up. Tlien in an instant the situation ex-

laihs itself to her she collects herself, one glance of passionate anger upon Mona, and then rises to welcome Mrs. Carson with her usual suave manner and bland smile, throwing into the fornier'an air meant to convey the- flattering idea that for the past week she has reen living on the hope of seeing her soon again.

She excuses her unwonted drowsiness with a little laugh, natural and friendly, and begs them "not to betray her."Clothed in all this sweetness she drops a word or two meant to crush M6na but thfet hapless young woman hears her not, being bent on explaining to Mrs. Carson that, as a rule, the Irish peasantry do not go about dressed only in glass beads, like the gay and festive Zulus, and that petticoats.and breeches are not utterly unknown.

Violet and Doatie drop in, and con* versation becomes general, and presently the visit comes to an end, and the Carsons fade away, and Mona is left to bear the brunt of Lady Rodney's anger, which has been steadily growing, instead of decreasing, during the past half hour. "Are there no servants in my, house," demands she, in a terrible tone, addressing Mona, the steely light coming into her blue eyes that Mona knows ana hates so well, "that you must feel it your duty to guide my visitors to my presence?" "If I made a mistake I am sorry for it," says Mona, earnestly. "It was unfortunate Mona should have met them at the hall door,—Edith Carson told me about it,—but it could not be helped," says Violet, calmly. "No, it couldn'the helped," says little Doatie. But their intervention only appears to add fuel to the fire of Lady Rodney's wrath. "It

shaU

be helped," she says, in a

low. but condensed tone. "For the future I forbid any (me in my house to take it upon them to say whether I am in or out. I am the one to decide that. On what principle did yon show them in here?" she asks, turning to Mona, her anger increasing as she remembers

uwho

*r/»n nM tflV

wnen vou were uniucsy enougn to qua yourself ftlfee to fhcewith thebkthat I wasjaot at $om«V" -J "Wcausctou were at home" replies Mom quietly, though in deep Cttstress. doe&i't matter," says Rodney "it is a mere formula. If it suited your purpose you could have said so—I uon't doubt—readily enough." "I regret that I met them," says Mona. who will not say she regrets sue told the truth. "And to usher tlipm fn her©! Into one of my most private rooms! Unlikely people, likethe Carsons, whom you have heard me speak of in disparaging terms a hundred ,tiiufl|!« -don't know- what

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on could )iave ten) tllinking- qittout. Perhaps next time you will be kind enough to bring them to mv bedroom." You misunderstand me,"'says Mona, with tears in her eyes. "I hardly think so. Yon can refuse to see people yourself when it suits you. Only yestetday," when Mr. Boer,"our rector, called, and I sent for you, you would not come "I don't like Mr. Boer," says Mona, "and it was not me he came to see." "Still, there was no necessity to insult him with such a message as you Bent. "Perhaps," with unpleasant meaning, "you do not understand that to say you are busy is rather more a rudeness than an excuse for one's nonappearance. "It was true," says Mona "I was writing letters for Geoffrey." "Nevertheless, you might have waived that fact, and sent down word you had a headache "But I hadn't a headache," says Mona, bending her large truthful eyes with embarrassing earnestness upon Lady Rodney. "Oh, if you were determined—" returns she, with a shrug. "1 was not determined you mistake me," exclaims Mona, miserably. "I simply hadn't a headache I never had one in my life,—and I shouldn't know how to get one."

At this point, Geoffrey—who had been hunting all the morning—enters the room with Captain Rodney. "Why, what is the matter?" he says, seeing signs of the lively storm on all their faces. Doatie explains hurriedly. "Look here!" says Geoffrey, "I won't have Mona spoiled. If she hadn't a headache, she hadnt, you know, and that's all about it. Why should she tell a lie about it?" "What do you mean. Geoffrey?" demands his mother, with suppressed indignation. "I mean that she shall remain as she is. .This world may be 'given to lying,' as Shakspeare tells us, but I will not have Mona tutored into telling fashionable falsehoods," says this intrepid young man, facing his mother without a qualm or a passing dread. "A lie of any sort is baBe, anaa. prevarication is only a-mean lie. She is truthful, let •her stay so. Why should she learn it is the correct thing to say she is not at home when she is,,or' that she is suffering from a foolish megrim when she isn't? I don't suppose there is much harm in saying either of these things, as nobody ever believes them but—let her remain a& she is." "Is she also to learn that you are at liberty to lecture your own mother?" asks Lady Rodney, pale with anger. "I arri not lecturing any One," replies he. looking very like her, notv that his face has whitened a little and a quick fire has lit itself within his eyes. "I am merely speakiTig against a general practice. 'Dare to be true nothing can need a lie,' is a line that always returns to me And, as I love Mona better than aijything on earth, I shall make it the business of my life to see she is not made unhappy by any one?"

At this moment Mona lifts lier head, and turns upon him eyes full of the tenderest love and trust. She would have dearly liked to go to him, and

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lace arms round his neck, and him with a fond caress fo& this speech, but some innate sense of breed* ing restrains her. *'Still. sometimes, you know, it is awkward to adhere to the very letter of the law," says Jack Rodney, easily. "Is there no compromise? I have heard of women who have made a point of running into the kitchen-garden when unwelcome visitors were announced, and so saved themselves and their principles. Couldn't Mona do that?"

This speech is made much

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laughed at for no reason whatever except that Violet and Doatie ate determined to end the unpleasant discussion by any means, even though it may be at the risk of being deemed silly. After some careful management they get Mona out of the room, and carry ner away with them to a little den off the eastern hall, that is very dear to therm "It is the most unhappy thing I have heard of," be&ins Doatne, desperately. "What Lady Rodney can see to dislike in you, Mona, I can't imagine. But the fact sests, she is hateful to you. Kow. we," glancing at Violet, "who are not

particularly amiable, are beloved by her, whilst you, who are all 'sweetness and light,' she detests most heartily." 4It is true," says Violet, evenly. "Yet, dear Mona, I wish you could try to be a little more likethe rest of the world.". "I want to very much," says poor Mona, her eyes filling with tears.— "Bu^," hopelessly, "must I begin by learning to tell lies?" All this teaching is-very hitter to her. "Lies! Oh, fie!" says Doatie. "Who tells lies? Nobody except the naughty, little boys in tracts, and they always break their legs falling off apple trees, or else get drowned on a Sunday morning. Now, we are not drowned, and our legs are uninjured. No, a lie is a horrid thing so low, and in such wretched taste. But there are little social fibs that may be uttered,—little taradiddles, —that do no harm to anybody, and that nobody believes in, but all pretend to, just for the sake of politeness."

Thus Doatie, looking preternaturally wise, but faintly puzzled at her own view of the question. "It doesn't sound right," says Mona, shaking her head. "She doesn't understand," puts in Violet, quickly. "Mona, are vou going to see everybody that may call upon yon,

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ood, bad, and indifferent, from this you die?" "I suppose so," says Mona, lifting her brows. "Then I can only say I pity you," says Miss Mansergh, leaning back in her chair, with the air of one who would say, ''Argument here is vain." "I shan't want to see them, perhaps," says Mona, apologetically, 'Iwit now shall I avoid it?" "Ah! now, that is more reasonable now we are comiiur to it." savs Doatie*

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