"must you really go, geoffrey?—really?" asks mona, miserably, looking the very personification of despair. she has asked the same question in the same tone ever since early dawn, and it is now four o'clock.

"yes, really. horrid bore, isn't it?—but county dinners must be attended, and nicholas will do nothing. besides, it isn't fair to ask him just now, dear old fellow, when he has so much upon his mind."

"but you have something on your mind, too. you have me. why doesn't jack go?"

"well, i rather think he has violet on his mind. did you ever see anything so spooney as they looked all through dinner yesterday and luncheon to-day? i didn't think it was in violet."

"did she never look at you like that?" asks mona, maliciously; "in the early days, i mean, before—before——"

"i fell a victim to your charms? no. jack has it all to himself as far as i'm concerned. well, i must be off, you know. it is a tremendous drive, and i'll barely do it in time. i shall be back about two in the morning."

"not until two?" says mona, growing miserable again.

"i can't well get away before that, you know, as wigley is a good way off. but i'll try all i know. and, after all," says geoffrey, with a view to cheering her, "it isn't as bad as if i was ordered off somewhere for a week, is it?"

"a week? i should be dead when you came back," declares mrs. geoffrey, with some vehemence, and a glance that shows she can dissolve into tears at a moment's notice.

"some fellows go away for months," says geoffrey, still honestly bent on cheering her, but unfortunately going the wrong way to work.

"then they ought to be ashamed of themselves," says mona, with much indignation. "months indeed!"

"why, they can't help it," explains he. "they are sent half the time."

"then the people who send them should be ashamed! but what about the other half of their time that they spend from home?"

"oh, i don't know: that was a mere figure of speech," says mr. rodney, who is afraid to say such absences are caused by an innate love of freedom and a vile desire for liberty at any cost, and has nothing else handy. "now don't stay moping up here when i go, but run downstairs and find the girls and make yourself happy with them."

"happy?" reproachfully. "i shan't know a happy moment until i see you again!"

"nor i, till i see you," says geoffrey, earnestly, actually believing what he says himself.

"i shall do nothing but look at the clock and listen for the sound of the horse's feet."

"mona, you musn't do that. now, i shall be really annoyed if you insist on sitting up for me and so lose a good night's rest. now, don't, darling. it will only take it out of you, and make you pale and languid next day."

"but i shall be more content so; and even if i went to bed i could not sleep. besides, i shall not be companionless when the small hours begin to creep upon me."

"eh?" says geoffrey.

"no; i shall have him with me: but, hush! it is quite a secret," placing her finger on her lips.

"'him'?—whom?"—demands her husband, with pardonable vivacity.

"my own old pet," says mrs. geoffrey, still mysteriously, and with the fondest smile imaginable.

"good gracious, mona, whom do you mean?" asks he, aghast both at her look and tone.

"why, spice, of course," opening her eyes. "didn't you know. why, what else could i mean?"

"i don't know, i'm sure; but really the way you expressed yourself, and——yes, of course, spice will be company, the very best company for you."

"i think i shall have allspice too," goes on mona. "but say nothing. lady rodney, if she knew it, would not allow it for a moment. but jenkins" (the old butler) "has promised to manage it all for me, and to smuggle my dear dogs up to my room without any one being in the least the wiser."

"if you have jenkins on your side you are pretty safe," says geoffrey. "my mother is more afraid of jenkins than you would be of a land-leaguer. well, good-by again. i must be off."

"what horse are you taking?" asks she, holding him.

"black bess."

"oh, geoffrey, do you want to break my heart? sure you know he is the most vicious animal in the whole stables. take any horse but that."

"well, if only to oblige you, i'll take truant."

"what! the horrid brute that puts back his ears and shows the white of his eyes! geoffrey, once for all, i desire you to have nothing to do with him."

"anything to please you," says geoffrey, who is laughing by this time. "may i trust my precious bones to mazerin? he is quite fifteen, has only one eye, and a shameless disregard for the whip."

"ye—es; he will do," says mona, after a second's careful thought, and even now reluctantly.

"i think i see myself behind mazerin, at this time of day," says mr. rodney, heartlessly. "you don't catch me at it, if i know it. i'm not sure what horse i shall have, but i trust to thomas to give me a good one. for the last time, good-by, you amiable young goose, and don't expect me till i come."

so saying, he embraces her warmly, and, running downstairs, jumps into the dog-cart, and drives away behind the "vicious black bess."

mona watches him from her window, as far as the curve in the avenue will permit, and, having received and returned his farewell wave of the hand, sits down, and taking out her handkerchief, indulges in a good cry.

it is the first time since their marriage that she and geoffrey have been parted, and it seems to her a hard thing that such partings should be. a sense of desolation creeps over her,—a sense of loneliness she has never known before.

then she remembers her promise to go down to the girls and abstain from fretting, and, rising bravely, she bathes her eyes, and goes down the marble staircase through the curtained alcove towards the small drawing-room, where one of the servants tells her, the family is assembled.

the door of the room she is approaching is wide open, and inside, as mona draws nearer, it becomes apparent that some one is talking very loudly, and with much emphasis, and as though determined not to be silenced. argument is plainly the order of the hour.

as mona comes still nearer, the words of the speaker reach her, and sink into her brain. it is lady rodney who is holding forth, and what she says floats lightly to mona's ears. she is still advancing, unmindful of anything but the fact that she cannot see geoffrey again for more hours than she cares to count, when the following words become clear to her, and drive the color from her cheeks,—

"and those dogs forever at her heels!—positively, she is half a savage. the whole thing is in keeping, and quite detestable. how can you expect me to welcome a girl who is without family and absolutely penniless? why, i am convinced that misguided boy bought her even her trousseau!"

mona has no time to hear more; pale, but collected, she walks deliberately into the room and up to lady rodney.

"you are mistaken in one point," she says, slowly. "i may be savage, penniless, without family,—but i bought my own trousseau. i do not say this to excuse myself, because i should not mind taking anything from geoffrey; but i think it a pity you should not know the truth. i had some money of my own,—very little, i allow, but enough to furnish me with wedding garments."

her coming is a thunderbolt, her speech lightning. lady rodney changes color, and is for once utterly disconcerted.

"i beg your pardon," she manages to say. "of course had i known you were listening at the door i should not have said what i did,"—this last with a desire to offend.

"i was not listening at the door," says mona, with dignity, yet with extreme difficulty: some hand seems clutching at her heart-strings, and he who should have been near to succor her is far away. "i never," haughtily, "listened at a door in all my life. i should not understand how to do it." her irish blood is up, and there is a distinct emphasis upon the pronoun. "you have wronged me twice!"

her voice falters. instinctively she looks round for help. she feels deserted,—alone. no one speaks. sir nicholas and violet, who are in the room, are as yet almost too shocked to have command of words; and presently the silence becomes unbearable.

two tears gather, and roll slowly down mona's white cheeks. and then somehow her thoughts wander back to the old farmhouse at the side of the hill, with the spreading trees behind it, and to the sanded floor and the cool dairy, and the warmth of the love that abounded there, and the uncle, who, if rough, was at least ready to believe her latest action—whatever it might be—only one degree more perfect than the one that went before it.

she turns away in a desolate fashion, and moves towards the door; but sir nicholas, having recovered from his stupefaction by this time, follows her, and placing his arm round her, bends over her tenderly, and presses her face against his shoulder.

"my dearest child, do not take things so dreadfully to heart," he says, entreatingly and soothingly: "it is all a mistake; and my mother will, i know, be the first to acknowledge herself in error."

"i regret—" begins lady rodney, stonily; but mona by a gesture stays her.

"no, no," she says, drawing herself up and speaking with a touch of pride that sits very sweetly on her; "i beg you will say nothing. mere words could not cure the wound you have inflicted."

she lays her hand upon her heart, as though she would say, "the wound lies here," and once more turns to the door.

violet, rising, flings from her the work she has been amusing herself with, and, with a gesture of impatience very foreign to her usual reserve goes up to mona, and, slipping her arm round her, takes her quietly out of the room.

up the stairs she takes her and into her own room, without saying a word. then she carefully turns the key in the door, and, placing mona in a large and cosey arm-chair, stands opposite to her, and thus begins,—

"now listen, mona," she says, in her low voice, that even now, when she is somewhat excited, shows no trace of heat or haste, "for i shall speak to you plainly. you must make up your mind to lady rodney. it is the common belief that mere birth will refine most people; but those who cling to that theory will surely find themselves mistaken. something more is required: i mean the nobility of soul that nature gives to the peasant as well as the peer. this, lady rodney lacks; and at heart, in sentiment, she is—at times—coarse. may i say what i like to you?"

"you may," says mona, bracing herself for the ordeal.

"well, then, i would ask you to harden your heart, because she will say many unpleasant things to you, and will be uncivil to you, simply because she has taken it into her head that you have done her an injury in that you have married geoffrey! but do you take no notice of her rudeness; ignore her, think always of the time that is coming when your own home will be ready for you, and where you can live with geoffrey forever, without fear of a harsh word or an unkind glance. there must be comfort in this thought."

she glances anxiously at mona, who is gazing into the fire with a slight frown upon her brow, that looks sadly out of place on that smooth white surface. at violet's last words it flies away, not to return.

"comfort? i think of nothing else," she says, dreamily.

"on no account quarrel with lady rodney. bear for the next few weeks (they will quickly pass) anything she may say, rather than create a breach between mother and son. you hear me, mona?"

"yes, i hear you. but must you say this? have i ever sought a quarrel with—geoffrey's mother?"

"no, no, indeed. you have behaved admirably where most women would have ignominiously failed. let that thought console you. to have a perfect temper, such as yours, should be in itself a source of satisfaction. and now bathe your eyes, and make yourself look even prettier than usual. a difficult matter, isn't it?" with a friendly smile.

mona smiles too in return, though still heavy at heart.

"have you any rose-water?" goes on miss mansergh in her matter-of-fact manner. "no? a good sign that tears and you are enemies. well, i have, and so i shall send it to you in a moment. you will use it?"

"oh, yes, thank you," says mona, who is both surprised and carried away by the other's unexpected eloquence.

"and now a last word, mona. when you come down to dinner to-night (and take care you are a little late), be gay, merry, wild with spirits, anything but depressed, whatever it may cost you. and if in the drawing-room, later on, lady rodney should chance to drop her handkerchief, or that eternal knitting, do not stoop to pick it up. if her spectacles are on a distant table, forget to see them. a nature such as hers could not understand a nature such as yours. the more anxious you may seem to please, the more determined she will be not to be pleased."

"but you like lady rodney?" says mona, in a puzzled tone.

"very much indeed. but her faults are obvious, and i like you too. i have said more to you of her than i have ever yet said to human being; why, i know not, because you are (comparatively speaking) a stranger to me, whilst she is my very good friend. yet so it rests. you will, i know, keep faith with me."

"i am glad you know that," says mona. then, going nearer to violet, she lays her hand upon her arm and regards her earnestly. the tears are still glistening in her eyes.

"i don't think i should mind it if i did not feel so much alone. if i had a place in your hearts," she says. "you all like me, i know, but i want to be loved." then, tremulously, "will you try to love me?"

violet looks at her criticizingly, then she smiles, and, placing her hand beneath mrs. geoffrey's chin, turns her face more to the fading light.

"yes, that is just your greatest misfortune," she says, meditatively. "love at any price. you would die out of the sunshine, or spoil, which would be worse. you will never be quite happy, i think; and yet perhaps," with a faint sigh, "you get your own good out of your life, after all,—happiness more intense, if briefer, than we more material people can know. there, shall i tell you something? i think you have gained more love in a short time than any other person i ever knew. you have conquered me, at least; and, to tell you the truth," with a slight grimace, "i was quite determined not to like you. now lie down, and in a minute or two i shall send halkett to you with the rose-water."

for the first time she stoops forward and presses her lips to mona's warmly, graciously. then she leaves her, and, having told her maid to take the rose-water to mrs. rodney, goes downstairs again to the drawing-room.

sir nicholas is there, silent, but angry, as violet knows by the frown upon his brow. with his mother he never quarrels, merely expressing disapproval by such signs as an unwillingness to speak, and a stern grave line that grows upon his lips.

"of course you are all against me," lady rodney is saying, in a rather hysterical tone. "even you, violet, have taken up that girl's cause!" she says this expectantly, as though calling on her ally for support. but for once the ally fails her. miss mansergh maintains an unflinching silence, and seats herself in her low wicker chair before the fire with all the air of one who has made up her mind to the course she intends to pursue, and is not be enticed from it.

"oh, yes, no doubt i am in the wrong, because i cannot bring myself to adore a vulgar girl who all day long shocks me with her irishisms," goes on lady rodney, almost in tears, born of vexation. "a girl who says, 'sure you know i didn't' or 'ah, did ye, now,' or 'indeed i won't, then!' every other minute. it is too much. what you all see in her i can't imagine. and you too, violet, you condemn me, i can see."

"yes, i think you are quite and altogether in the wrong," says miss mansergh, in her cool manner, and without any show of hesitation, selecting carefully from the basket near her the exact shade of peacock blue she will require for the cornflower she is working.

lady rodney, rising hurriedly, sails with offended dignity from the room.