"i hope you have had a nice walk?" says violet, politely, drawing her skirts aside to make room for mona, who had just come in.

it is quite half-past six; and though there is no light in the room, save the glorious flames given forth by the pine logs that lie on the top of the coals, still one can see that the occupants of the apartment are dressed for dinner.

miss darling—sir nicholas's fiancee—and her brother are expected to night; and so the household generally has dressed itself earlier than usual to be in full readiness to receive them.

lady rodney and violet are sitting over the fire, and now mona joins them, gowned in the blue satin dress in which she had come to meet geoffrey, not so many months ago, in the old wood behind the farm.

"very nice," she says, in answer to violet's question, sinking into the chair that miss mansergh, by a small gesture, half languid, half kindly, has pushed towards her, and which is close to violet's own. "i went up the avenue, and then out on the road for about half a mile."

"it is a very late hour for any one to be on the public road," says lady rodney, unpleasantly, quite forgetting that people, as a rule, do not go abroad in pale-blue satin gowns, and that therefore some time must have elapsed between mona's return from her walk and the donning of her present attire. and so she overreaches herself, as clever people will do, at times.

"it was two hours ago," says mona, gently. "and then it was quite daylight, or at least"—truthfully—"only the beginning of dusk."

"i think the days are lengthening," says violet, quietly, defending mona unconsciously, and almost without knowing why. yet in her heart—against her will as it were—she is making room for this irish girl, who, with her great appealing eyes and tender ways, is not to be resisted.

"i had a small adventure," says mona, presently, with suppressed gayety. all her gayety of late has been suppressed. "just as i came back to the gate here, some one came riding by, and i turned to see who it was, at which his horse—as though frightened by my sudden movement—shied viciously, and then reared so near me as almost to strike me with his fore-paws. i was frightened rather, because it was all so sudden, and sprang to one side. then the gentleman got down, and, coming to me, begged my pardon. i said it didn't matter, because i was really uninjured, and it was all my fault. but he seemed very sorry, and (it was dusk as i told you, and i believe he is short sighted) stared at me a great deal."

"well?" says violet, who is smiling, and seems to see a joke where mona fails to see anything amusing.

"when he was tired of staring, he said, 'i suppose i am speaking to——' and then he stopped. 'mrs. rodney,' replied i; and then he raised his hat, and bowed, and gave me his card. after that he mounted again, and rode away."

"but who was this gentleman?" says lady rodney, superciliously. "no doubt some draper from the town."

"no; he was not a draper," says mona, gently, and without haste.

"whoever he was, he hardly excelled in breeding," says lady rodney; "to ask your name without an introduction! i never heard of such a thing. very execrable form, indeed. in your place i should not have given it. and to manage his horse so badly that he nearly ran you down. he could hardly be any one we know. some petty squire, no doubt."

"no; not a petty squire," says mona; "and i think you do know him. and why should i be ashamed to tell my name to any one?"

"the question was strictly in bad taste," says lady rodney again. "no well-bred man would ask it. i can hardly believe i know him. he must have been some impossible person."

"he was the duke of lauderdale," says mona, simply. "here is his card."

a pause.

lady rodney is plainly disconcerted, but says nothing. violet follows suit, but more because she is thoroughly amused and on the point of laughter, than from a desire to make matters worse.

"i hope you had your hat on," says lady rodney, presently, in a severe tone, meant to cover the defeat. she had once seen mona with the crimson silk handkerchief on her head,—irish fashion,—and had expressed her disapproval of all such uncivilized headdresses.

"yes; i wore my big rubens hat, the one with——"

"i don't care to hear about the contents of your wardrobe," interrupts lady rodney, with a slight but unkind shrug. "i am glad, at least, you were not seen in that objectionable headdress you so often affect."

"was it the rubens hat with the long brown feather?" asks violet, sweetly, turning to mona, as though compelled by some unknown force to say anything that shall restore the girl to evenness of mind once more.

"yes; the one with the brown feather," returns mona, quickly, and with a smile radiant and grateful, that sinks into violet's heart and rests there.

"you told the duke who you were?" breaks in lady rodney at this moment, who is in one of her worst moods.

"yes; i said i was mrs. rodney."

"mrs. geoffrey rodney, would have been more correct. you forget your husband is the youngest son. when captain rodney marries, his wife will be mrs. rodney."

"but surely until then mona may lay claim to the title," says violet, quickly.

"i do not wish to lay claim to anything," says mona, throwing up her head with a little proud gesture,—"least of all to what does not by right belong to me. to be mrs. geoffrey is all i ask."

she leans back in her chair, and brings her fingers together, clasping them so closely that her very nails grow white. her thin nostrils dilate a little, and her breath comes quickly, but no angry word escapes her. how can her lips give utterance to a speech that may wound the mother of the man she loves!

violet, watching her, notes the tumult in her mind, and, seeing how her will gains mastery over her desire, honors her for her self-control.

then jack comes in, and sir nicholas, and later on geoffrey.

"no one can say we are not in time," says jack, gayly. "it is exactly"—examining closely the ormolu-clock upon the mantelpiece—"one hour before we can reasonably expect dinner."

"and three-quarters. don't deceive yourself, my dear fellow: they can't be here one moment before a quarter to eight."

"then, in the meantime, violet, i shall eat you," says captain rodney, amiably, "just to take the edge off my appetite. you would be hardly sufficient for a good meal!" he laughs and glances significantly at her slight but charming figure, which is petite but perfect, and then sinks into a low chair near her.

"i hear this dance at the chetwoodes' is to be rather a large affair," says geoffrey, indifferently. "i met gore to-day, and he says the duchess is going, and half the county."

"does he mean going himself?" says nicholas, idly. "he is here to-day, i know, but one never knows where he may be to-morrow, he is so erratic."

"he is a little difficult; but, on the whole, i think i like sir mark better than most men," says violet, slowly.

whereupon jack rodney instantly conceives a sudden and uncalled for dislike towards the man in question.

"lilian is such a dear girl," says lady rodney; "she is a very general favorite. i have no doubt her dance will be a great success."

"you are speaking of lady chetwoode? was it her that called last week?" asks mona, timidly, forgetting grammar in her nervousness.

"yes; it was her that called last week," returns her amiable mother-in-law, laying an unmistakable stress upon the pronoun.

no one is listening, fortunately, to this gratuitous correction, or hot words might have been the result. sir nicholas and geoffrey are laughing over some old story that has been brought to their recollection by this idle chattering about the chetwoodes' ball; jack and violet are deep in some topic of their own.

"well, she danced like a fairy, at all events, in spite of her size," says sir nicholas, alluding to the person the funny story had been about.

"you dance, of course," says lady rodney, turning to mona, a little ashamed, perhaps, of her late rudeness.

"oh, yes," says mona, brightening even under this small touch of friendliness. "i'm very fond of it, too. i can get through all the steps without a mistake."

at this extraordinary speech, lady rodney stares in bewilderment.

"ah! walzes and polkas, you mean?" she says, in a puzzled tone.

"eh?" says mrs. geoffrey.

"you can waltz?"

"oh, no!" shaking her lovely head emphatically, with a smile. "it's country dances i mean. up the middle and down again, and all that," moving her hand in a soft undulating way as though keeping it in accord with some music that is ringing in her brain. then, sweetly, "did you ever dance a country dance?"

"never!" says lady rodney, in a stony fashion. "i don't even know what you mean."

"no?" arching her brows, and looking really sorry for her. "what a pity! they all come quite naturally to me. i don't remember ever being taught them. the music seemed to inspire me, and i really dance them very well. don't i geoff?"

"i never saw your equal," says geoffrey, who, with sir nicholas, has been listening to the last half of the conversation, and who is plainly suppressing a strong desire to laugh.

"do you remember the evening you taught me the country dance that i said was like an old-fashioned minuet? and what an apt pupil i proved! i really think i could dance it now. by the by, my mother never saw one danced. she"—apologetically—"has not been out much. let us go through one now for her benefit."

"yes, let us," says mona, gayly.

"pray do not give yourselves so much trouble on my account," says lady rodney, with intense but subdued indignation.

"it won't trouble us, not a bit," says mrs. geoffrey, rising with alacrity. "i shall love it, the floor is so nice and slippery. can any one whistle?"

at this sir nicholas gives way and laughs out loud, whereon mona laughs too, though she reddens slightly, and says, "well, of course the piano will do, though the fiddle is best of all."

"violet, play us something," says geoffrey, who has quite entered into the spirit of the thing, and who doesn't mind his mothers "horrors" in the least, but remembers how sweet mona used to look when going slowly and with that quaint solemn dignity of hers "through her steps."

"i shall be charmed," says violet; "but what is a country dance? will 'sir roger' do?"

"no. play anything monotonous, that is slow and dignified besides, and it will answer; in fact, anything at all," says geoffrey, largely, at which violet smiles and seats herself at the piano.

"well, just wait till i tuck up the tail of my gown," says mrs. geoffrey, airily flinging her pale-blue skirt over her white bare arm.

"you may as well call it a train; people like it better," says geoffrey. "i'm sure i don't know why, but perhaps it sounds better."

"there can be scarcely any question about that," says lady rodney, unwilling to let any occasion pass that may permit a slap at mona.

"yet the princess d—— always calls her train a 'tail,'" says violet, turning on her piano-stool to make this remark, which is balm to mona's soul: after which she once more concentrates her thoughts on the instrument before her, and plays some odd old-fashioned air that suits well the dance of which they have been speaking.

then geoffrey offers mona his hand, and leads her to the centre of the polished floor. there they salute each other in a rather grandisonian fashion, and then separate.

the light from the great pine fire streams over all the room, throwing a rich glow upon the scene, upon the girl's flushed and earnest face, and large happy eyes, and graceful rounded figure, betraying also the grace and poetry of her every movement.

she stands well back from geoffrey, and then, without any of the foolish, unlovely bashfulness that degenerates so often into awkwardness in the young, begins her dance.

it is a very curious and obsolete, if singularly charming, performance, full of strange bows, and unexpected turnings, and curtseys dignified and deep.

as she advances and retreats, with her svelte figure drawn to its fullest height, and her face eager and intent upon the business in hand, and with her whole heart thrown apparently into the successful accomplishment of her task, she is looking far lovelier than she herself is at all aware.

even lady rodney for the moment has fallen a prey to her unpremeditated charms, and is leaning forward anxiously watching her. jack and sir nicholas are enchanted.

the shadows close them in on every side. only the firelight illumines the room, casting its most brilliant and ruddy rays upon its central figures, until they look like beings conjured up from the olden times, as they flit to and fro in the slow mysterious mazes of the dance.

mona's waxen arms gleam like snow in the uncertain light. each movement of hers is full of grace and verve. her entire action is perfect.

"her feet beneath her petticoat

like little mice, stole in and out,

as if they feared the light.

and, oh! she dances such a way,

no sun upon an easter day

is half so fine a sight."

the music, soft and almost mournful, echoes through the room; the feet keep time upon the oaken floor; weird-like the two forms move through the settled gloom.

the door at the farthest end of the room has been opened, and two people who are as yet invisible stand upon the threshold, too surprised to advance, too enthralled, indeed, by the sight before them to do so.

only as mrs. geoffrey makes her final curtesy, and geoffrey, with a laugh, stoops forward to kiss her lips instead of her hand, as acknowledgment of her earnest and very sweet performance, thereby declaring the same to have come to a timely end, do the new-comers dare to show themselves.

"oh, how pretty!" cries one of them from the shadow as though grieved the dance has come so quickly to an end "how lovely!"

at this voice every one starts! mona, slipping her hand into geoffrey's, draws him to one side; lady rodney rises from her sofa, and sir nicholas goes eagerly towards the door.

"you have come!" cries he, in a tone mona has never heard before, and then—there is no mistake about the fact that he and the shadow have embraced each other heartily.

"yes, we have indeed," says the same sweet voice again, which is the merriest and softest voice imaginable, "and in very good time too, as it seems. nolly and i have been here for fully five minutes, and have been so delighted with what we have seen that we positively could not stir. dear lady rodney, how d'ye do?"

she is a very little girl, quite half a head shorter than mona, and, now that one can see her more plainly as she stands on the hearthrug, something more than commonly pretty.

her eyes are large and blue, with a shade of green in them; her lips are soft and mobile; her whole expression is debonnaire, yet full of tenderness. she is brightness itself; each inward thought, be it of grief or gladness, makes itself outwardly known in the constant changes of her face. her hair is cut above her forehead, and is quite golden, yet perhaps it is a degree darker than the ordinary hair we hear described as yellow. to me, to think of dorothy darling's head is always to remind myself of that line in milton's "comus," where he speaks of

"the loose train of thy amber-drooping hair."

she is very sweet to look at, and attractive and lovable.

"her angel's face

as the great eye of heaven shined bright,

and made a sunshine in the shady place."

such is nicholas's betrothed, to whom, as she gazes on her, all at once, in the first little moment, mona's whole soul goes out.

she has shaken hands with everybody, and has kissed lady rodney, and is now being introduced to mona.

"your wife, geoffrey?" she says, holding mona's hand all the time, and gazing at her intently. then, as though something in mrs. geoffrey's beautiful face attracts her strangely, she lifts her face and presses her soft lips to mona's cheek.

a rush of hope and gladness thrills mona's bosom at this gentle touch. it is the very first caress she has ever received from one of geoffrey's friends or relations.

"i think somebody might introduce me," says a plaintive voice from the background, and dorothy's brother, putting dorothy a little to one side, holds out his hand to mona. "how d'ye do, mrs. rodney?" he says, pleasantly. "there's a dearth of etiquette about your husband that no doubt you have discovered before this. he has evidently forgotten that we are comparative strangers; but we sha'n't be long so, i hope?"

"i hope not, indeed," says mona giving him her hand with a very flattering haste.

"you have come quite half an hour earlier than we expected you," says sir nicholas, looking with fond satisfaction into miss darling's eyes. "these trains are very uncertain."

"it wasn't the train so much," says doatie, with a merry laugh, "as nolly: we weren't any time coming, because he got out and took the reins from hewson, and after that i rather think he took it out of your bays, nicholas."

"well, i never met such a blab! i believe you'd peach on your grandmother," says her brother, with supreme contempt. "i didn't do 'em a bit of harm, rodney i give you my word."

"i'll take it," says nicholas; "but, even if you did, i should still owe you a debt of gratitude for bringing doatie here thirty minutes before we hoped for her."

"now make him your best curtsey, dolly," says mr. darling, seriously; "it isn't everyday you will get such a pretty speech as that."

"and see what we gained by our haste," says dorothy, smiling at mona. "you can't think what a charming sight it was. like an old legend or a fairy-tale. was it a minuet you were dancing?"

"oh, no; only a country dance," says mona, blushing.

"well, it was perfect: wasn't it, violet?"

"i wish i could have seen it better," returns violet, "but, you see, i was playing."

"i wish i could have seen it forever," says mr. darling, gallantly, addressing mona; "but all good things have an end too soon. do you remember some lines like these? they come to me just now:

when you do dance, i wish you

a wave o' the sea, that you might ever do

nothing but that."

"yes, i recollect; they are from the 'winter's tale.' i think," says mona, shyly; "but you say too much for me."

"not half enough," says mr. darling, enthusiastically.

"don't you think, sir, you would like to get ready for dinner?" says geoffrey, with mock severity. "you can continue your attentions to my wife later on,—at your peril."

"i accept the risk," says nolly, with much stateliness and forthwith retires to make himself presentable.