it is ten days later. the air is growing brisker, the flowers bear no new buds. more leaves are falling on the woodland paths, and the trees are throwing out their last bright autumn tints of red and brown and richest orange, that tell all too plainly of the death that lies before them.

great cascades of water are rushing from the high hills, tumbling, hurrying, with their own melodious music, into the rocky basins that kind nature has built to receive them. the soothing voices of the air are growing louder, more full of strength; the branches of the elms bow down before them; the gentle wind, "a sweet and passionate wooer," kisses the blushing leaf with perhaps a fiercer warmth than it did a month agone.

it is in the spring—so we have been told—that "a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love;" yet it is in the autumn that our young man takes to this pleasing if somewhat unsatisfactory amusement.

not that he himself is at all aware of the evil case into which he has fallen. he feels not the arrow in his heart, or the tender bands that slowly but surely are winding themselves around him,—steel bands, decked out and hidden by perfumed flowers. as yet he feels no pang; and, indeed, were any one to even hint at such a thing, he would have laughed aloud at the idea of his being what is commonly termed "in love."

that he—who has known so many seasons, and passed through the practised hands of some of the prettiest women this world can afford, heart-whole, and without a scratch—should fall a victim to the innocent wiles of a little merry irish girl of no family whatever, seems too improbable even of belief, however lovely beyond description this girl may be (and is), with her wistful, laughing, mischievous irish eyes, and her mobile lips, and her disposition half angelic, half full of fire and natural coquetry.

beauty, according to ovid, is "a favor bestowed by the gods;" theophrastus says it is "a silent cheat;" and shakspeare tells us it

"is but a vain and doubtful good,

a shining gloss that fadeth suddenly,

a flower that dieth when first it 'gins to bud,

a brittle glass that's broken presently,

a doubtful good, a gloss, a glass, a flower,

lost, faded, broken, dead within an hour."

mere beauty of form and feature will fade indeed, but mona's beauty lies not altogether in nose or eyes or mouth, but rather in her soul, which compels her face to express its lightest meaning. it is in her expression, which varies with each passing thought, changing from "grave to gay, from lively to severe," as the soul within speaks to it, that her chief charm dwells. she is never quite the same for two minutes running,—which is the surest safeguard against satiety. and as her soul is pure and clean, and her face is truly the index to her mind, all it betrays but endears her to and makes richer him who reads it.

"age cannot wither her, nor custom stale

her infinite variety."

whenever these lines come to me i think of mona.

it is midday, and geoffrey, gun in hand, is idly stalking through the sloping wood that rises behind mangle farm. the shooting he has had since his arrival in ireland, though desultory,—perhaps because of it,—has proved delightful in his sight. here coveys come upon one unawares, rising out of fields when least expected, and therefore when discovered possess all the novelty of a gigantic surprise. now and then he receives kindly warning of birds seen "over night" in some particular corner, and an offer to escort him to the scene of action without beat of drum.

as for instance, in the morning his man assails him with the news that micky brian or dinny collins (he has grown quite familiar with the gentry around) "is without, an' would like to spake wid him." need i remark that he has widely hired his own particular attendant from among the gay and festive youths of bantry?

whereupon he goes "without," which means to his own hall-door that always stands wide open, and there acknowledges the presence of mickey or dinny, as the case may be, with a gracious nod. mickey instantly removes his caubeen and tells "his honor" (regardless of the fact that his honor can tell this for himself) that "it is a gran' fine day," which as a rule is the first thing an irish person will always say on greeting you, as though full of thankfulness to the powers above, in that sweet weather has been given.

then follows a long-winded speech on the part of mickey about birds in general and grouse in particular, finishing up with the announcement that he can tell where the finest covey seen this season lies hidden.

"an' the biggest birds, an' as full o' corn as iver ye see, the rogues!"

at this his honor requests mickey to step into the hall, and with his own hands administers to him a glass of whiskey, which mightily pleases the son of erin, though he plainly feels it his duty to make a face at it as he swallows it off neat. and then geoffrey sallies forth and goes for the promised covey, followed closely by the excited mickey, and, having made account of most of them, presses backsheesh into the hands of his informant, and sends him home rejoicing.

for the most part these bonnie brown birds have found their way into miss mona's pantry, and are eaten by that little gourmand with the rarer pleasure that in her secret heart she knows that the giver of them is not blind to the fact that her eyes are faultless and her nose pure greek.

just at this moment he is coming down through brake and furze, past tangling blackberry-bushes that are throwing out leaves of brilliant crimson and softest yellow, and over rustling leaves, towards the farm that holds his divinity.

ill luck has attended his efforts to-day, or else his thoughts have been wandering in the land where love holds sway, because he is empty-handed. the bonnie brown bird has escaped him, and no gift is near to lay at mona's shrine.

as he reaches the broad stream that divides him from the land he would reach, he pauses and tries to think of any decent excuse that may enable him to walk with a bold front up to the cottage door. but no such excuse presents itself. memory proves false. it refuses to assist him. he is almost in despair.

he tries to persuade himself that there is nothing strange or uncommon in calling upon wednesday to inquire with anxious solicitude about the health of a young woman whom he had seen happy and robust on tuesday. but the trial is not successful, and he is almost on the point of flinging up the argument and going home again, when his eye lights upon a fern small but rare, and very beautiful, that growing on a high rock far above him, overhangs the stream.

it is a fern for which mona has long been wishing. oh! happy thought! she has expressed for it the keenest admiration. oh! blissful remembrance! she has not one like it in all her collection. oh! certainty full of rapture.

now will he seize this blessed opportunity, and, laden with the spoils of war, approach her dwelling (already she is "she"), and triumphantly, albeit humbly, lay the fern at her feet, and so perchance gain the right to bask for a few minutes in the sunshine of her presence.

no sooner thought than done! laying his gun carefully upon the ground, he looks around him to see by what means he shall gain possession of this lucky fern which is growing, deeply rooted in its native soil, far above him.

a branch of a tree overspreading the water catches his attention. it is not strong, but it suggests itself as a means to the desired end. it is indeed slim to a fault, and unsatisfactory to an alarming degree, but it must do, and geoffrey, swinging himself up to it, tries it first, and then standing boldly upon it, leans over towards the spot where the fern can be seen.

it is rather beyond his reach, but he is determined not to be outdone. of course by stepping into the water and climbing the slimy rock that holds the desired treasure, it can be gained; but with a lazy desire to keep his boots dry, he clings to his present position, regardless of the fact that bruised flesh (if nothing worse) will probably be the result of his daring.

he has stooped very much over indeed. his hand is on the fern; he has safely carefully extracted it, roots and all (one would think i was speaking of a tooth! but this is by the way), from its native home, when cr-r-k goes something; the branch on which he rests betrays him, and smashing hurls him head downwards into the swift but shallow stream below.

a very charming vision clad in oxford shirting, and with a great white hat tied beneath her rounded chin with blue ribbons,—something in the style of a sir joshua reynolds,—emerges from among the low-lying firs at this moment. having watched the (seemingly) light catastrophe from afar, and being apparently amused by it, she now gives way to unmistakable mirth and laughs aloud. when mona laughs, she does it with all her heart, the correct method of suppressing all emotion, be it of joy or sorrow,—regarding it as a recreation permitted only to the vulgar,—being as yet unlearned by her. therefore her expression of merriment rings gayly and unchecked through the old wood.

but presently, seeing the author of her mirth does not rise from his watery resting-place, her smile fades, a little frightened look creeps into her eyes, and, hastening forward, she reaches the bank of the stream and gazes into it. rodney is lying face downwards in the water, his head having come with some force against the sharp edge of a stone against which it is now resting.

mona turns deadly pale, and then instinctively loosening the strings of her hat flings it from her. a touch of determination settles upon her lips, so prone to laughter at other times. sitting on the bank, she draws off her shoes and stockings, and with the help of an alder that droops to the river's brim lowers herself into the water.

the stream, though insignificant, is swift. placing her strong young arms, that are rounded and fair as those of any court dame, beneath rodney, she lifts him, and, by a supreme effort, and by right of her fresh youth and perfect health, draws him herself to land.

in a minute or two the whole affair proves itself a very small thing indeed, with little that can be termed tragical about it. geoffrey comes slowly back to life, and in the coming breathes her name. once again he is trying to reach the distant fern; once again it eludes his grasp. he has it; no, he hasn't; yet, he has. then at last he wakes to the fact that he has indeed got it in earnest, and that the blood is flowing from a slight wound in the back of his head, which is being staunched by tender fingers, and that he himself is lying in mona's arms.

he sighs, and looks straight into the lovely frightened eyes bending over him. then the color comes with a sudden rush back into his cheeks as he tells himself she will look upon him as nothing less than a "poor creature" to lose consciousness and behave like a silly girl for so slight a cause. and something else he feels. above and beyond everything is a sense of utter happiness, such as he has never known before, a thrill of rapture that has in it something of peace, and that comes from the touch of the little brown hand that rests so lightly on his head.

"do not stir. your head is badly cut, an' it bleeds still," says mona, with a shoulder. "i cannot stop it. oh, what shall i do?"

"who got me out of the water?" asks he, lazily, pretending (hypocrite that he is) to be still overpowered with weakness. "and when did you come?"

"just now," returns she, with some hesitation, and a rich accession of coloring, that renders her even prettier than she was a moment since. because

"from every blush that kindles in her cheeks,

ten thousand little loves and graces spring."

her confusion, however, and the fact that no one else is near, betrays the secret she fain would hide.

"was it you?" asks he, raising himself on his elbow to regard her earnestly, though very loath to quit the spot where late he has been tenant. "you? oh, mona!"

it is the first time he has ever called her by her christian name without a prefix. the tears rise to her eyes. feeling herself discovered, she makes her confession slowly, without looking at him, and with an air of indifference so badly assumed as to kill the idea of her ever attaining prominence upon the stage.

"yes, it was i," she says. "and why shouldn't i? is it to see you drown i would? i—i didn't want you to find out; but"—quickly—"i would do the same for any one at any time. you know that."

"i am sure you would," says geoffrey, who has risen to his feet and has taken her hand. "nevertheless, though, as you say, i am but one in the crowd,—and, of course, nothing to you,—i am very glad you did it for me."

with a little touch of wilfulness, perhaps pride, she withdraws her hand.

"i dare say," she says, carelessly, purposely mistaking his meaning: "it must have been cold lying there."

"there are things that chill one more than water," returns he, slightly offended by her tone.

"you are all wet. do go home and change your clothes," says mona, who is still sitting on the grass with her gown spread carefully around her. "or perhaps"-reluctantly—"it will be better for you to go to the farm, where bridget will look after you."

"thank you; so i shall, if you will come with me."

"don't mind me," says miss scully, hastily. "i shall follow you by and by."

"by and by will suit me down to the ground," declares he, easily. "the day is fortunately warm: damp clothes are an advantage rather than otherwise."

silence. mona taps the mound beside her with impatient fingers, her mind being evidently great with thought.

"i really wish," she says, presently, "you would do what i say. go to the farm, and—stay there."

"well, come with me, and i'll stay till you turn me out.'

"i can't," faintly.

"why not?" in a surprised tone.

"because—i prefer staying here."

"oh! if you mean by that you want to get rid of me, you might have said so long ago, without all this hinting," says mr. rodney, huffily, preparing to beat an indignant retreat.

"i didn't mean that, and i never hint," exclaims mona, angrily; "and if you insist on the truth, if i must explain to you what i particularly desire to keep secret, you——"

"you are hurt!" interrupts he, with passionate remorse. "i see it all now. stepping into that hateful stream to save me, you injured yourself severely. you are in pain,—you suffer; whilst i——"

"i am in no pain," says mona, crimson with shame and mortification. "you mistake everything. i have not even a scratch on me; and—i have no shoes or stockings on me either, if you must know all!"

she turns from him wrathfully; and geoffrey, disgusted with himself, steps back and makes no reply. with any other woman of his acquaintance he might perhaps at this juncture have made a mild request that he might be allowed to assist in the lacing or buttoning of her shoes; but with this strange little irish girl all is different. to make such a remark would be, he feels, to offer her a deliberate insult.

"there, do go away!" says this woodland goddess. "i am sick of you and your stupidity."

"i'm sure i don't wonder," says geoffrey, very humbly. "i beg your pardon a thousand times; and—good-by, miss mona."

she turns involuntarily, through the innate courtesy that belongs to her race, to return his parting salutation, and, looking at him, sees a tiny spot of blood trickling down his forehead from the wound received awhile since.

on the instant all is forgotten,—chagrin, shame, shoes and stockings, everything! springing to her little naked feet, she goes to him, and, raising her hand, presses her handkerchief against the ugly stain.

"it has broken out again!" she says, nervously. "i am sure—i am certain—it is a worst wound than you imagine. ah! do go home, and get it dressed."

"but i shouldn't like any one to touch it except you," says mr. rodney, truthfully. "even now, as your fingers press it, i feel relief."

"do you really?" asks mona, earnestly.

"honestly, i do."

"then just turn your back for one moment," says mona simply, "and when my shoes and stockings are on i'll go home with you an' bathe it. now, don't turn round, for your life!"

"'is thy servant a dog, that he should do this thing?'" quotes mr. rodney; and, mona having got into her shoes, she tells him he is at liberty to follow her across the rustic bridge lower down, that leads from the wood into mangle farm.

"you have spoiled your gown on my account," says geoffrey, surveying her remorsefully; "and such a pretty gown, too. i don't think i ever saw you looking sweeter than you look to-day. and now your dress is ruined, and it is all my fault!"

"how dare you find a defect in my appearance?" says mona, with her old gay laugh. "you compel me to retaliate. just look at yourself. did you ever see such a regular pickle as you are?"

in truth he is. so when he has acknowledged the melancholy fact, they both laugh, with the happy enjoyment of youth, at their own discomfiture, and go back to the cottage good friends once more.

on the middle of the rustic bridge before mentioned he stops her, to say, unexpectedly,—

"do you know by what name i shall always call you in my thoughts?"

to which she answers, "no. how should i? but tell me."

"'bonnie lesley:' the poet says of her what i think of you."

"and what do you think of me?" she has grown a little pale, but her eyes have not left his.

"to see her is to love her,

and love but her forever;

for nature made her what she is,

and ne'er made sie anither,"

quotes geoffrey, in a low tone, that has something in it almost startling, so full is it of deep and earnest feeling.

mona is the first to recover herself.

"that is a pretty verse," she says, quietly. "but i do not know the poem. i should like to read it."

her tone, gentle but dignified, steadies him.

"i have the book that contains it at coolnagurtheen," he says, somewhat subdued. "shall i bring it to you?"

"yes. you may bring it to me—to-morrow," returns she, with the faintest hesitation, which but enhances the value of the permission, whereon his heart once more knows hope and content.