old brian scully is in his parlor, and comes to meet them as they enter the hall,—his pipe behind his back.

"come in, come in," he begins, cheerily, and then, catching sight of mona's pale face, stops short. "why, what has come to ye?" cries he, aghast, glancing from his niece to rodney's discolored shirt and torn coat; "what has happened?"

"it was tim ryan," returns mona, wearily, feeling unequal to a long story just at present.

"eh, but this is bad news!" says old scully, evidently terrified and disheartened by his niece's words. "where will it all end? come in, misther rodney: let me look at ye, boy. no, not a word out of ye now till ye taste something. 'tis in bits ye are; an' a good coat it was this mornin'. there's the whiskey, mona, agra, an' there's the wather. oh! the black villain! let me examine ye, me son. why, there's blood on ye! oh! the murthering thief!"

so runs on the kindly farmer, smitten to the heart that such things should be,—and done upon rodney of all men. he walks round the young man, muttering his indignation in a low tone, while helping him with gentle care to remove his coat,—or at least what remains of that once goodly garment that had for parent mr. poole.

"where's the docther at all, at all?" says he, forcing geoffrey into a chair, and turning to biddy, who is standing open-mouthed in the doorway, and who, though grieved, is plainly finding some pleasure in the situation. being investigated, she informs them the "docther" is to-night on the top of carrigfoddha mountain, and, literally, "won't be home until morning."

"now, what's to be done?" says old brian, in despair. "i know, as well as if ye tould me, it is norry flannigan! just like those wimmen to be always troublesome! are ye sure biddy?"

"troth i am, sir. i see him goin' wid me own two eyes not an hour ago, in the gig an' the white horse, wid the wan eye an' the loose tail,—that looks for all the world as if it was screwed on to him. an' 'tisn't norry is callin' for him nayther (though i don't say but she'll be on the way), but larry moloney the sweep. 'tis a stitch he got this morning, an' he's gone intirely this time, the people say. an' more's the pity too, for a dacent sowl he was, an' more nor a mortial sweep."

this eulogy on the departing larry she delivers with much unction, and a good deal of check apron in the corner of one eye.

"never mind larry," says the farmer, impatiently. "this is the seventh time he has died this year. but think of misther rodney here. can't ye do something for him?"

"sure miss mona can," says biddy, turning to her young mistress, and standing in the doorway in her favorite position,—that is, with her bare arms akimbo, and her head to one side like a magpie. "she's raal clever at dhressin' an' doctherin' an' that."

"oh, no, i'm not clever," says mona; "but"—nervously and with downcast eyes, addressing geoffrey—"i might perhaps be able to make you a little more comfortable."

a strange feeling of shyness is weighing upon her. her stalwart english lover is standing close beside her, having risen from his chair with his eyes on hers, and in his shirt-sleeves looking more than usually handsome because of his pallor, and because of the dark circles that, lying beneath his eyes, throw out their color, making them darker, deeper, than is their nature. how shall she bare the arm of this young adonis?—how help to heal his wound? oh, larry moloney, what hast thou not got to answer for!

she shrinks a little from the task, and would fain have evaded it altogether; though there is happiness, too, in the thought that here is an occasion on which she may be of real use to him. will not the very act itself bring her nearer to him? is it not sweet to feel that it is in her power to ease his pain? and is she not only doing what a tender wife would gladly do for her husband?

still she hesitates, though betraying no vulgar awkwardness or silly mauvaise honte. indeed, the only sign of emotion she does show is a soft slow blush, that, mounting quickly, tips even her little ears with pink.

"let her thry," says old brian, in his soft, irish brogue, that comes kindly from his tongue. "she's mighty clever about most things."

"i hardly like to ask her to do it," says the young man, divided between an overpowering desire to be made "comfortable," as she has expressed it, and a chivalrous fear that the sight of the nasty though harmless flesh-wound will cause her some distress. "perhaps it will make you unhappy,—may shock you," he says to her, with some anxiety.

"no, it will not shock me," returns mona, quietly; whereupon he sits down, and biddy puts a basin on the table, and mona, with trembling fingers, takes a scissors, and cuts away the shirt-sleeve from his wounded arm. then she bathes it.

after a moment she turns deadly pale, and says, in a faint tone, "i know i am hurting you: i feel it." and in truth i believe the tender heart does feel it, much more than he does. there is an expression that amounts to agony in her beautiful eyes.

"you hurt me!" replies he, in a peculiar tone, that is not so peculiar but it fully satisfies her. and then he smiles, and, seeing old brian has once more returned to the fire and his pipe, and biddy has gone for fresh water, he stoops over the reddened basin, and, in spite of all the unromantic surroundings, kisses her as fondly as if roses and moonbeams and dripping fountains and perfumed exotics were on every side. and this, because true romance—that needs no outward fire to keep it warm—is in his heart.

and now mona knows no more nervousness, but with a steady and practised hand binds up his arm, and when all is finished pushes him gently (very gently) from her, and "with heart on her lips, and soul within her eyes," surveys with pride her handiwork.

"now i hope you will feel less pain," she says, with modest triumph.

"i feel no pain," returns he, gallantly.

"well said!" cries the old man from the chimney-corner, slapping his knee with delight; "well said, indeed! it reminds me of the ould days when we'd swear to any lie to please the lass we loved. ay, very good, very good."

at this mona and geoffrey break into silent laughter, being overcome by the insinuation about lying.

"come here an' sit down, lad," says old scully, unknowing of their secret mirth, "an' tell me all about it, from start to finish,—that ryan's a thundering rogue,—while mona sees about a bed for ye."

"oh, no," says rodney, hastily. "i have given quite too much trouble already. i assure you i am quite well enough now to ride back again to bantry."

"to bantry," says mona, growing white again,—"to-night! oh, do you want to kill me and yourself?"

"she has reason," says the old man, earnestly and approvingly, rounding his sentence after the french fashion, as the irish so often will: "she has said it," he goes on, "she always does say it; she has brains, has my colleen. ye don't stir out of this house to-night, mr. rodney; so make up yer mind to it. with tim ryan abroad, an' probably picked up and carried home by this time, the counthry will be all abroad, an' no safe thravellin' for man or baste. here's a cosey sate for ye by the fire: sit down, lad, an' take life aisy."

"if i was quite sure i shouldn't be dreadfully in the way," says geoffrey, turning to mona, she being mistress of the ceremonies.

"be quite sure," returns she, smiling.

"and to-morrow ye can go into banthry an' prosecute that scoundrel ryan," says scully, "an' have yer arm properly seen afther."

"so i can," says geoffrey. then, not for any special reason, but because, through very love of her, he is always looking at her, he turns his eyes on mona. she is standing by the table, with her head bent down.

"yes, to-morrow you can have your arm re-dressed," she says, in a low tone, that savors of sadness; and then he knows she does not want him to prosecute ryan.

"i think i'll let ryan alone," he says, instantly, turning to her uncle and addressing him solely, as though to prove himself ignorant of mona's secret wish. "i have given him enough to last him for some time." yet the girl reads him him through and through, and is deeply grateful to him for this quick concession to her unspoken desire.

"well, well, you're a good lad at heart," says scully, glad perhaps in his inmost soul, as his countrymen always are and will be when a compatriot cheats the law and escapes a just judgment. "mona, look after him for awhile, until i go an' see that lazy spalpeen of mine an' get him to put a good bed undher mr. rodney's horse."

when the old man has gone, mona goes quietly up to her lover, and, laying her hand upon his arm,—a hand that seems by some miraculous means to have grown whiter of late,—says, gratefully,—

"i know why you said that about ryan, and i thank you for it. i should not like to think it was your word had transported him."

"yet, i am letting him go free that he may be the perpetrator of even greater crimes."

"you err, nevertheless, on the side of mercy, if you err at all; and—perhaps there may be no other crimes. he may have had his lesson this evening,—a lasting one. to-morrow i shall go to his cabin, and——"

"now, once for all, mona," interrupts he, with determination, "i strictly forbid you ever to go to ryan's cottage again."

it is the first time he has ever used the tone of authority towards her, and involuntarily she shrinks from him, and glances up at him from under her long lashes in a half frightened, half-reproachful fashion, as might an offended child.

following her, he takes both her hands, and, holding them closely, draws her back to her former position beside him.

"forgive me: it was an ugly word," he says, "i take it back. i shall never forbid you to do anything, mona, if my doing so must bring that look into your eyes. yet surely there are moments in every woman's life when the man who loves her, and whom she loves, may claim from her obedience, when it is for her own good. however, let that pass. i now entreat you not to go again to ryan's cabin."

releasing her hands from his firm grasp, the girl lays them lightly crossed upon his breast, and looks up at him with perfect trust,—

"nay," she says, very sweetly and gravely, "you mistake me. i am glad to obey you. i shall not go to ryan's house again."

there is both dignity and tenderness in her tone. she gazes at him earnestly for a moment, and then suddenly slips one arm round his neck.

"geoffrey," she says with a visible effort.

"yes, darling."

"i want you to do something for my sake."

"i will do anything, my own."

"it is for my sake; but it will break my heart."

"mona! what are you going to say to me?"

"i want you to leave ireland—not next month, or next week, but at once. to-morrow, if possible."

"my darling, why?"

"because you are not safe here: your life is in danger. once ryan is recovered, he will not be content to see you living, knowing his life is in your hands; every hour you will be in danger. whatever it may cost me, you must go."

"that's awful nonsense, you know," says rodney, lightly. "when he sees i haven't taken any steps about arresting him, he will forget all about it, and bear no further ill will."

"you don't understand this people as i do. i tell you he will never forgive his downfall the other night, or the thought that he is in your power."

"well, at all events i shan't go one moment before i said i should," says rodney.

"it is now my turn to demand obedience," says mona, with a little wan attempt at a smile. "will you make every hour of my life unhappy? can i live in the thought that each minute may bring me evil news of you,—may bring me tidings of your death?" here she gives way to a passionate burst of grief, and clings closer to him, as though with her soft arms to shield him from all danger. her tears touch him.

"well, i will go," he says, "on one condition,—that you come with me."

"impossible!" drawing back from him. "how could i be ready? and, besides, i have said i will not marry you until a year goes by. how can i break my word?"

"that word should never have been said. it is better broken."

"oh, no."

"very well. i shall not ask you to break it. but i shall stay on here. and if," says this artful young man, in a purposely doleful tone, "anything should happen, it will——"

"don't say it! don't!" cries mona, in an agony, stopping his mouth with her hand. "do not! yes, i give in. i will go with you. i will marry you any time you like, the sooner the better,"—feverishly; "anything to save your life!"

this is hardly complimentary, but geoffrey passes it over.

"this day week, then," he says, having heard, and taken to heart the wisdom of, the old maxim about striking while the iron is hot.

"very well," says mona, who is pale and thoughtful.

and then old brian comes in, and geoffrey opens out to him this newly-devized plan; and after a while the old farmer, with tears in his eyes, and a strange quiver in his voice that cuts through mona's heart, gives his consent to it, and murmurs a blessing on this hasty marriage that is to deprive him of all he best loves on earth.

and so they are married, and last words are spoken, and adieux said, and sad tears fall, and for many days her own land knows mona no more.

and that night, when she is indeed gone, a storm comes up from the sea, and dashes the great waves inward upon the rocky coast. and triumphantly upon their white bosoms the sea-mews ride, screaming loudly their wild sweet song that mingles harmoniously with the weird music of the winds and waves.

and all the land is rich with angry beauty beneath the rays of the cold moon, that

"o'er the dark her silver mantle throws;"

and the sobbing waves break themselves with impotent fury upon the giant walls of granite that line the coast, and the clouds descend upon the hills, and the sea-birds shriek aloud, and all nature seems to cry for mona.

but to the hill of carrickdhuve, to sit alone and gaze in loving silence on the heaven-born grandeur of earth and sky and sea, comes mona scully no more forever.