HOW THE MYSTIC MOONBEAMS THROW THEIR RAYS ON MONA; AND HOW GEOFFREY,
JEALOUS OF THEIR ADMIRATION, DESIRES TO CLAIM HER AS HIS OWN.
Friday is fine, and towards nightfall grows still milder, until it seems
that even in the dawn of October a summer's night may be born.
The stars are coming out one by one,--slowly, tranquilly, as though
haste has got no part with them. The heavens are clothed in azure. A
single star, that sits apart from all the rest, is twinkling and
gleaming in its blue nest, now throwing out a pale emerald ray, now a
blood-red fire, and anon a touch of opal, faint and shadowy, yet more
lovely in its vagueness than all the rest, until verily it resembles "a
diamond in the sky."
Geoffrey coming to the farm somewhat early in the evening, Mona takes
him round to the yard, where two dogs, hitherto unseen by Geoffrey, lie
chained. They are two splendid bloodhounds, that, as she approaches,
rise to their feet, and, lifting their massive heads, throw out into the
night-air a deep hollow bay that bespeaks welcome.
"What lovely creatures!" says Geoffrey, who has a passion for animals:
they seem to acknowledge him as a friend. As Mona looses them from their
den, they go to him, and, sniffing round him, at last open their great
jaws into a satisfied yawn, and, raising themselves, rest their paws
upon his breast and rub their faces contentedly against his.
"Now you are their friend forever," says Mona, in a pleased tone. "Once
they do that, they mean to tell you they have adopted you. And they like
very few people: so it is a compliment."
"I feel it keenly," says Rodney, caressing the handsome creatures as
they crouch at his feet. "Where did you get them?"
"From Mr. Moore." A mischievous light comes into her face as she says
this, and she laughs aloud. "But, I assure you, not as a love-token. He
gave them to me when they were quite babies, and I reared them myself.
Are they not lovely? I call them? 'Spice' and 'Allspice,' because one
has a quicker temper than the other."
"The names are original, at all events," says Geoffrey,--"which is a
great charm. One gets so tired of 'Rags and Tatters,' 'Beer and
Skittles,' 'Cakes and Ale,' and so forth, where pairs are in question,
whether they be dogs or ponies."
"Shall we set out now?" says Mona; and she calls "Mickey, Mickey," at
the top of her strong young lungs.
The man who manages the farm generally--and is a plague and a blessing
at the same time to his master--appears round a corner, and declares,
respectfully, that he will be ready in a "jiffy" to accompany Miss Mona,
if she will just give him time to "clane himself up a bit."
And in truth the "claning" occupies a very short period,--or else Mona
and Geoffrey heed not the parting moments. For sometimes
"Time, as he passes us, has a dove's wing,
Unsoiled and swift, and of a silken sound."
"I'm ready now, miss, if you are," says Mickey from the background, with
the utmost _bonhommie_, and in a tone that implies he is quite willing
not to be ready, if it so pleases her, for another five minutes or so,
or even, if necessary, to efface himself altogether. He is a stalwart
young Hibernian, with rough hair and an honest face, and gray eyes,
merry and cunning, and so many freckles that he looks like a turkey-egg.
"Oh, yes, I am quite ready," says Mona, starting somewhat guiltily. And
then they pass out through the big yard-gate, with the two dogs at their
heels, and their attendant squire, who brings up the rear with a soft
whistle that rings through the cool night-air and tells the listening
stars that the "girl he loves is his dear," and his "own, his artless
Nora Creana."
Geoffrey and Mona go up the road with the serenader behind them, and,
turning aside, she guiding, mount a stile, and, striking across a field,
make straight for the high hill that conceals the ocean from the farm.
Over many fields they travel, until at length they reach the mountain's
summit and gaze down upon the beauteous scene below.
The very air is still. There is no sound, no motion, save the coming and
going of their own breath as it rises quickly from their hearts, filled
full of passionate admiration for the loveliness before them.
From the high hill on which they stand, steep rocks descend until they
touch the water's edge, which lies sleeping beneath them, lulled into
slumber by the tranquil moon as she comes forth "from the slow opening
curtains of the clouds."
Far down below lies the bay, calm and placid. Not a ripple, not a sigh
comes to disturb its serenity or mar the perfect beauty of the silver
pathway thrown so lightly upon it by the queen of heaven. It falls there
so clear, so unbroken, that almost one might deem it possible to step
upon it, and so walk onwards to the sky that melts into it on the far
horizon.
The whole firmament is of a soft azure, flecked here and there with
snowy clouds tipped with palest gray. A little cloud--the tenderest veil
of mist--hangs between earth and sky.
"The moon is up; it is the dawn of night;
Stands by her side one bold, bright, steady star,
Star of her heart.
Mother of stars! the heavens look up to thee."
Mona is looking up to it now, with a rapt, pensive gaze, her great blue
eyes gleaming beneath its light. She is sitting upon the side of the
hill, with her hands clasped about her knees, a thoughtful expression on
her lovely face. At each side of her, sitting bolt upright on their huge
haunches, are the dogs, as though bent on guarding her against all
evil.
Geoffrey, although in reality deeply impressed by the grandeur of all
the surroundings, yet cannot keep his eyes from Mona's face, her pretty
attitude, her two mighty defenders. She reminds him in some wise of Una
and the lion, though the idea is rather far-fetched; and he hardly dares
speak to her, lest he shall break the spell that seems to lie upon her.
She herself destroys it presently.
"Do you like it?" she asks, gently, bringing her gaze back from the
glowing heavens, to the earth, which is even more beautiful.
"The praise I heard of it, though great, was too faint," he answers her,
with such extreme sincerity in his tone as touches and gladdens the
heart of the little patriot at his feet. She smiles contentedly, and
turns her eyes once more with lazy delight upon the sea, where each
little point and rock is warmed with heavenly light. She nods softly to
herself, but says nothing.
To her there is nothing strange or new, either in the hour or the place.
Often does she come here in the moonlight with her faithful attendant
and her two dogs, to sit and dream away a long sweet hour brimful of
purest joy, whilst drinking in the plaintive charm that Nature as a rule
flings over her choicest paintings.
To him, however, all is different; and the hour is fraught with a
tremulous joy, and with a vague sweet longing that means love as yet
untold.
"This spot always brings to my mind the thoughts of other people," says
Mona, softly. "I am very fond of poetry: are you?"
"Very," returns he, surprised. He has not thought of her as one versed
in lore of any kind. "What poets do you prefer?"
"I have read so few," she says, wistfully, and with hesitation. Then,
shyly, "I have so few to read. I have a Longfellow, and a Shakspeare,
and a Byron: that is all."
"Byron?"
"Yes. And after Shakspeare, I like him best, and then Longfellow. Why do
you speak in that tone? Don't you like him?"
"I think I like no poet half so well. You mistake me," replies he,
ashamed of his own surprise at her preference for his lordship beneath
the calm purity of her eyes. "But--only--it seemed to me Longfellow
would be more suited to you."
"Well, so I do love him. And just then it was of him I was thinking:
when I looked up to the sky his words came back to me. You remember what
he says about the moon rising 'over the pallid sea and the silvery mist
of the meadows,' and how,--
'Silently, one by one, in the infinite meadows of heaven,
Blossomed the lovely stars, the forget-me-nots of the angels,
That is so sweet, I think."
"I remember it; and I remember, too, who watched all that: do you?" he
asks, his eyes fixed upon hers.
"Yes; Gabriel--poor Gabriel and Evangeline," returns she, too wrapped up
in recollections of that sad and touching tale to take to heart his
meaning:--
'Meanwhile, apart, in the twilight gloom of a window's embrasure
Sat the lovers, and whispered together.'
That is the part you mean, is it not? I know all that poem very nearly
by heart."
He is a little disappointed by the calmness of her answer.
"Yes; it was of them I thought," he says, turning his head away,--"of
the--lovers. I wonder if _their_ evening was as lovely as _ours_?"
Mona makes no reply.
"Have you ever read Shelley?" asks he, presently, puzzled by the extreme
serenity of her manner.
She shakes her head.
"Some of his ideas are lovely. You would like his poetry, I think."
"What does he say about the moon?" asks Mona, still with her knees in
her embrace, and without lifting her eyes from the quiet waters down
below.
"About the moon? Oh, many things. I was not thinking of the moon," with
faint impatience; "yet, as you ask me, I can remember one thing he says
about it."
"Then tell it to me," says Mona.
So at her bidding he repeats the lines slowly, and in his best manner,
which is very good:--
"The cold chaste moon, the queen of heaven's bright isles,
Who makes all beautiful on which she smiles!
That wandering shrine of soft yet icy flame,
Which ever is transformed, yet still the same,
And warms, but not illumines."
He finishes; but, to his amazement, and a good deal to his chagrin, on
looking at Mona he finds she is wreathed in smiles,--nay, is in fact
convulsed with silent laughter.
"What is amusing you?" asks he, a trifle stiffly.--To give way to
recitation, and then find your listener in agonies of suppressed mirth,
isn't exactly a situation one would hanker after.
"It was the last line," says Mona, in explanation, clearly ashamed of
herself, yet unable wholly to subdue her merriment. "It reminded me so
much of that speech about tea, that they always use at temperance
meetings; they call it the beverage 'that cheers but not inebriates.'
You said 'that warms but not illumines,' and it sounded exactly like it.
Don't you see!"
He doesn't see.
"You aren't angry, are you?" says Mona, now really contrite. "I couldn't
help it, and it _was_ like it, you know."
"Angry? no!" he says, recovering himself, as he notices the penitence on
the face upraised to his.
"And do say it is like it," says Mona, entreatingly.
"It is, the image of it," returns he, prepared to swear to anything she
may propose And then he laughs too, which pleases her, as it proves he
no longer bears in mind her evil deed; after which, feeling she still
owes him something, she suddenly intimates to him that he may sit down
on the grass close beside her. He seems to find no difficulty in swiftly
following up this hint, and is soon seated as near to her as
circumstances will allow.
But on this picture, the beauty of which is undeniable, Mickey (the
barbarian) looks with disfavor.
"If he's goin' to squat there for the night,--an' I see ivery prospect
of it," says Mickey to himself,--"what on airth's goin' to become of
me?"
Now, Mickey's idea of "raal grand" scenery is the kitchen fire. Bays and
rocks and moonlight, and such like comfortless stuff, would be
designated by him as "all my eye an' Betty Martin." He would consider
the bluest water that ever rolled a poor thing if compared to the water
that boiled in the big kettle, and sadly inferior to such cold water as
might contain a "dhrop of the crather." So no wonder he views with
dismay Mr. Rodney's evident intention of spending another half hour or
so on the top of Carrick dhuve.
Patience has its limits. Mickey's limit comes quickly When five more
minutes have passed, and the two in his charge still make no sign, he
coughs respectfully but very loudly behind his hand. He waits in anxious
hope for the result of this telling manoeuvre, but not the faintest
notice is taken of it. Both Mona and Geoffrey are deaf to the pathetic
appeal sent straight from his bronchial tubes.
Mickey, as he grows desperate, grows bolder. He rises to speech.
"Av ye plaze, miss, will ye soon be comin'?"
"Very soon, Mickey," says Mona, without turning her head. But, though
her words are satisfactory, her tone is not. There is a lazy ring in it
that speaks of anything but immediate action. Mickey disbelieves in it.
"I didn't make up the mare, miss, before comin' out wid ye," he says,
mildly, telling this lie without a blush.
"But it is early yet, Mickey, isn't it?" says Mona.
"Awfully early," puts in Geoffrey.
"It is, miss; I know it, sir; but if the old man comes out an' finds the
mare widout her bed, there'll be all the world to pay, an' he'll be
screechin' mad."
"He won't go into the stable to-night," says Mona, comfortably.
"He might, miss. It's the very time you'd wish him aisy in his mind that
he gets raal troublesome. An' I feel just as if he was in the stable
this blessid minit lookin' at the poor baste, an' swearin' he'll have
the life uv me."
"And I feel just as if he had gone quietly to bed," says
Mona, pleasantly, turning away.
But Mickey is not to be outdone. "An' there's the pigs, miss," he begins
again, presently.
"What's the matter with them?" says Mona, with some pardonable
impatience.
"I didn't give them their supper yet, miss; an' it's very bad for the
young ones to be left starvin'. It's on me mind, miss, so that I can't
even enjoy me pipe, and it's fresh baccy I have an' all, an' it might as
well be dust for what comfort I get from it. Them pigs is callin' for me
now like Christians: I can a'most hear them."
"I shouldn't think deafness is in your family," says Geoffrey, genially.
"No, sir; it isn't, sir. We're none of us hard of hearin' glory be
to----. Miss Mona," coaxingly, "sure, it's only a step to the house:
wouldn't Misther Rodney see ye home now, just for wanst?"
"Why, yes, of course he can," says Mona, without the smallest
hesitation. She says it quite naturally, and as though it was the most
usual thing in the world for a young man to see a young woman home,
through dewy fields and beneath "mellow moons," at half-past ten at
night. It is now fully nine, and she cannot yet bear to turn her back
upon the enchanting scene before her. Surely in another hour or so it
will be time enough to think of home and all other such prosaic facts.
"Thin I may go, miss?" says Mickey.
"Oh, yes, you may go," says Mona. Geoffrey says nothing. He is looking
at her with curiosity, in which deep love is mingled. She is so utterly
unlike all other women he has ever met, with their petty affectations
and mock modesties, their would-be hesitations and their final
yieldings. She has no idea she is doing anything that all the world of
women might not do, and can see no reason why she should distrust her
friend just because he is a man.
Even as Geoffrey is looking at her, full of tender thought, one of the
dogs, as though divining the fact that she is being left somewhat alone,
lays its big head upon her shoulder, and looks at her with large loving
eyes. Turning to him in response, she rubs her soft cheek slowly up and
down against his. Geoffrey with all his heart envies the dog. How she
seems to love it! how it seems to love her!
"Mickey, if you are going, I think you may as well take the dogs with
you," says Mona: "they, too, will want their suppers. Go, Spice, when I
desire you. Good-night, Allspice; dear darling,--see how he clings to
me."
Finally the dogs are called off, and reluctantly accompany the jubilant
Mickey down the hill.
"Perhaps you are tired of staying here," says Mona, with compunction,
turning to Geoffrey, "and would like to go home? I suppose every one
cannot love this spot as I do. Yes," rising, "I am selfish. Do come
home."
"Tired!" says Geoffrey, hastily. "No, indeed. What could tire of
anything so divine? If it is your wish, it is mine also, that we should
stay here for a little while longer." Then, struck by the intense relief
in her face, he goes on: "How you do enjoy the beauties of Nature! Do
you know I have been studying you since you came here, and I could see
how your whole soul was wrapped in the glory of the surrounding
prospect? You had no thoughts left for other objects,--not even one for
me. For the first time," softly, "I learned to be jealous of inanimate
things."
"Yet I was not so wholly engrossed as you imagine," she says, seriously.
"I thought of you many times. For one thing, I felt glad that you could
see this place with my eyes. But I have been silent, I know;
and--and----"
"How Rome and Spain would enchant you," he says watching her face
intently, "and Switzerland, with its lakes and mountains!"
"Yes. But I shall never see them."
"Why not? You will go there, perhaps when you are married."
"No," with a little flickering smile, that has pain and sorrow in it;
"for the simple reason that I shall never marry."
"But why?" persists he.
"Because"--the smile has died away now, and she is looking down upon
him, as he lies stretched at her feet in the uncertain moonlight, with
an expression sad but earnest,--"because, though I am only a farmer's
niece, I cannot bear farmers, and, of course, other people would not
care for me."
"That is absurd," says Rodney; "and your own words refute you. That man
called Moore cared for you, and very great impertinence it was on his
part."
"Why, you never even saw him," says Mona, opening her eyes.
"No; but I can fancy him, with his horrid bald head. Now, you know,"
holding up his hand to stop her as she is about to speak, "you know you
said he hadn't a hair left on it."
"Well, he was different," says Mona, giving in ignominiously. "I
couldn't care for him either; but what I said is true all the same.
Other people would not like me."
"Wouldn't they?" says Rodney, leaning on his elbow as the argument waxes
warmer; "then all I can say is, I never met any 'other people.'"
"You have met only them, I suppose, as you belong to them."
"Do you mean to tell me that _I_ don't care for you?" says Rodney,
quickly.
Mona evades a reply.
"How cold it is!" she says, rising, with a little shiver. "Let us go
home."
If she had been nurtured all her life in the fashionable world, she
could scarcely have made a more correct speech. Geoffrey is puzzled, nay
more, discomfited. Just in this wise would a woman in his own set answer
him, did she mean to repel his advances for the moment. He forgets that
no tinge of worldliness lurks in Mona's nature, and feels a certain
amount of chagrin that she should so reply to him.
"If you wish," he says, in a courteous tone, but one full of coldness;
and so they commence their homeward journey.
"I am glad you have been pleased to-night," says Mona, shyly, abashed by
his studied silence. "But," nervously, "Killarney is even more
beautiful. You must go there."
"Yes; I mean to,--before I return to England."
She starts perceptibly, which is balm to his heart.
"To England!" she repeats, with a most mournful attempt at unconcern,
"Will--will that be soon?"
"Not very soon. But some time, of course, I must go."
"I suppose so," she says, in a voice from which all joy has flown. "And
it is only natural; you will be happier there." She is looking straight
before her. There is no quiver in her tone; her lips do not tremble; yet
he can see how pale she has grown beneath the vivid moonlight.
"Is that what you think?" he says, earnestly. "Then for once you are
wrong. I have never been--I shall hardly be again--happier than I have
been in Ireland."
There is a pause. Mona says nothing, but taking out the flower that has
lain upon her bosom all night, pulls it to pieces petal by petal. And
this is unlike Mona, because flowers are dear to her as sunshine is to
them.
At this moment they come to a high bank, and Geoffrey, having helped
Mona to mount it, jumps down at the other side, and holds out his arms
to assist her to descend. As she reaches the ground, and while his arms
are still round her, she says, with a sudden effort, and without lifting
her eyes, "There is very good snipe-shooting here at Christmas."
The little pathetic insinuation is as perfect as it is touching.
"Is there? Then I shall certainly return for it," says Geoffrey, who is
too much of a gentleman to pretend to understand all her words seem to
imply. "It is really no journey from this to England."
"I should think it a long journey," says Mona, shaking her head.
"Oh, no, you won't," says Rodney, absently. In truth, his mind is
wandering to that last little speech of hers, and is trying to unravel
it.
Mona looks at him. How oddly he has expressed himself! "You won't," he
said, instead of "you wouldn't." Does he then deem it possible she will
ever be able to cross to that land that calls him son? She sighs, and,
looking down at her little lean sinewy hands, clasps and unclasps them
nervously.
"Why need you go until after Christmas?" she says, in a tone so low that
he can barely hear her.
"Mona! Do you want me to stay?" asks he, suddenly, taking her hands in
his. "Tell me the truth."
"I do," returns she, tremulously.
"But why?--why? Is it because you love me? Oh, Mona! If it is that! At
times I have thought so, and yet again I have feared you do not love me
as--as I love you."
"You love me?" repeats she, faintly.
"With all my heart," says Rodney, fervently. And, indeed, if this be so,
she may well count herself in luck, because it is a very good and true
heart of which he speaks.
"Don't say anything more," says the girl, almost passionately, drawing
back from him as though afraid of herself. "Do not. The more you say
now, the worse it will be for me by and by, when I have to think.
And--and--it is all quite impossible."
"But why, darling? Could you not be happy as my wife?"
"Your wife?" repeats she, in soft, lingering tones, and a little tender
seraphic smile creeps into her eyes and lies lightly on her lips. "But I
am not fit to be that, and----"
"Look here," says Geoffrey, with decision, "I will have no 'buts,' and I
prefer taking my answer from your eyes than from your lips. They are
kinder. You are going to marry me, you know, and that is all about it.
_I_ shall marry _you_, whether you like it or not, so you may as well
give in with a good grace. And I'll take you to see Rome and all the
places we have been talking about, and we shall have a real good old
time. Why don't you look up and speak to me, Mona?"
"Because I have nothing to say," murmurs the girl, in a frozen
tone,--"nothing." Then passionately, "I will not be selfish. I will not
do this thing."
"Do you mean you will not marry me?" asks he, letting her go, and moving
back a step or two, a frown upon his forehead. "I confess I do not
understand you."
"Try, _try_ to understand me," entreats she, desperately, following him
and laying her hand upon his arm. "It is only this. It would not make
you happy,--not _afterwards_, when you could see the difference between
me and the other women you have known. You are a gentleman; I am only a
farmer's niece." She says this bravely, though it is agony to her proud
nature to have to confess it.
"If that is all," says Geoffrey, with a light laugh, laying his hand
over the small brown one that still rests upon his arm, "I think it need
hardly separate us. You are, indeed, different from all the other women
I have met in my life,--which makes me sorry for all the other women.
You are dearer and sweeter in my eyes than any one I have ever known! Is
not this enough? Mona, are you sure no other reason prevents your
accepting me? Why do you hesitate?" He has grown a little pale in his
turn, and is regarding her with intense and jealous earnestness. Why
does she not answer him? Why does she keep her eyes--those honest
telltales--so obstinately fixed upon the ground? Why does she show no
smallest sign of yielding?
"Give me my answer," he says, sternly.
"I have given it," returns she, in a low tone,--so low that he has to
bend to hear it. "Do not be angry with me, do not--I----"
"'Who excuses himself, accuses himself,'" quotes Geoffrey. "I want no
reasons for your rejection. It is enough that I know you do not care for
me."
"Oh, no! it is not that! you must know it is not that," says Mona, in
deep grief. "It is that I _cannot_ marry you!"
"Will not, you mean!"
"Well, then, I _will_ not," returns she, with a last effort at
determination, and the most miserable face in the world.
"Oh, if you _will_ not," says Mr. Rodney, wrathfully.
"I--will--not," says Mona, brokenly.
"Then I don't believe you!" breaks out Geoffrey, angrily. "I am positive
you want to marry me; and just because of some wretched fad you have got
into your head you are determined to make us both wretched."
"I have nothing in my head," says Mona, tearfully.
"I don't think you can have much, certainly," says Mr. Rodney, with the
grossest rudeness, "when you can let a few ridiculous scruples interfere
with both our happiness." Then, resentfully, "Do you hate me?"
No answer.
"Say so, if you do: it will be honester. If you don't," threateningly,
"I shall of course think the contrary."
Still no answer.
She has turned away from him, grieved and frightened by his vehemence,
and, having plucked a leaf from the hedge near her, is trifling absently
with it as it lies upon her little trembling palm.
It is a drooping blackberry-leaf from a bush near where she is standing,
that has turned from green into a warm and vivid crimson. She examines
it minutely, as though lost in wonder at its excessive beauty, for
beautiful exceedingly it is, clothed in the rich cloak that Autumn's
generosity has flung upon it; yet I think, she for once is blind to its
charms.
"I think you had better come home," says Geoffrey, deeply angered with
her. "You must not stay here catching cold."
A little soft woollen shawl of plain white has slipped from her throat
and fallen to the ground, unheeded by her in her great distress. Lifting
it almost unwillingly, he comes close to her, and places it round her
once again. In so doing he discovers that tears are running down her
cheeks.
"Why, Mona, what is this?" exclaims he, his manner changing on the
instant from indignation and coldness to warmth and tenderness. "You are
crying? My darling girl! There, lay your head on my shoulder, and let us
forget we have ever quarrelled. It is our first dispute; let it be our
last. And, after all," comfortably, "it is much better to have our
quarrels before marriage than after."
This last insinuation, he flatters himself, is rather cleverly
introduced.
"Oh, if I could be quite, _quite_ sure you would never regret it!" says
Mona, wistfully.
"I shall never regret anything, as long as I have you!" says Rodney. "Be
assured of that."
"I am so glad you are poor," says Mona. "If you were rich or even well
off, I should never consent,--never!"
"No, of course not," says Mr. Rodney, unblushingly! "as a rule, girls
nowadays can't endure men with money."
This is "sarkassum;" but Mona comprehends it not.
Presently, seeing she is again smiling and looking inexpressibly happy,
for laughter comes readily to her lips, and tears, as a rule, make no
long stay with her,--ashamed, perhaps, to disfigure the fair "windows of
her soul," that are so "darkly, deeply, beautifully blue,"--"So you will
come to England with me, after all?" he says, quite gayly.
"I would go to the world's end with you," returns she, gently. "Ah! I
think you knew that all along."
"Well, I didn't," says Rodney. "There were moments, indeed, when I
believed in you; but five minutes ago, when you flung me over so
decidedly, and refused to have anything to do with me, I lost faith in
you, and began to think you a thorough-going coquette like all the rest.
How I wronged you, my _dear_ love! I should have known that under no
circumstances could you be untruthful."
At his words, a glad light springs to life within her wonderful eyes.
She is so pleased and proud that he should so speak of her.
"Do you know, Mona," says the young man, sorrowfully, "you are too good
for me,--a fellow who has gone racketing all over the world for years.
I'm not half worthy of you."
"Aren't you?" says Mona, in her tender fashion, that implies so kind a
doubt. Raising one hand (the other is imprisoned), she draws his face
down to her own. "I wouldn't have you altered in any way," she says;
"not in the smallest matter. As you are, you are so dear to me you could
not be dearer; and I love you now, and I shall always love you, with all
my heart and soul."
"My sweet angel!" says her lover, pressing her to his heart. And when he
says this he is not so far from the truth, for her tender simplicity and
perfect faith and trust bring her very near to heaven!