"I am spinning flax for Betty, because she has rheumatism in her poor shoulder, and can do nothing, and this much flax must be finished by a certain time. I have nearly got through my portion now," says Mona; "and then we can go home."

"When I bring you to my home," says Geoffrey, "I shall have you painted just in that gown, and with a spinning-wheel before you; and it shall be hung in the gallery among the other--very inferior--beauties."

"Where?" says Mona, looking up quickly.

"Oh! at home, you know," says Mr. Rodney, quickly, discovering his mistake. For the moment he had forgotten his former declaration of poverty, or, at least, his consenting silence, when she had asked him about it.

"In the National Gallery, do you mean?" asks Mona, with a pretty, puzzled frown on her brow. "Oh, no, Geoffrey; I shouldn't like that at all. To be stared at by everybody,--it wouldn't be nice, would it?"

Rodney laughs, in an inward fashion, biting his lip and looking down.

"Very well; you sha'n't be put there," he says. "But nevertheless you must be prepared for the fact that you will undoubtedly be stared at by the common herd, whether you are in the National Gallery or out of it."

"But why?" says Mona, trying to read his face. "Am I so different from other people?"

"Very different," says Rodney.

"That is what I am afraid of always," says Mona, a little wistfully.

"Don't be afraid. It is quite the correct thing to be eccentric nowadays. One is nowhere if not bizarre," says Rodney, laughing; "so I dare say you will find yourself the very height of fashion."

"Now I think you are making fun of me," says Mona, smiling sweetly; and, lifting her hand, she pinches his ear lightly, and very softly, lest she should hurt him.

Here the old woman at the fire, who has been getting up and down from her three-legged stool during the past few minutes, and sniffing at the pot in an anxious manner, gives way to a loud sigh of relief. Lifting the pot from its crook, she lays it on the earthen floor.

Then she strains the water from it, and looks with admiration upon its steaming contents. "The murphies" (as, I fear, she calls the potatoes) are done to a turn.

"Maybe," says Betty Corcoran, turning in a genial fashion to Mona and Geoffrey, "ye'd ate a pratie, would ye, now? They're raal nice an'

floury. Ye must be hungry, Miss Mona, afther all the work ye've gone through; an' if you an' your gintleman would condescind to the like of my dinner, 'tis ready for ye, an' welcome ye are to it. Do, now!"

heartily. "The praties is gran' this year,--praises be for all mercies.

Amen."

"They _do_ look nice," says Mona, "and I _am_ hungry. If we won't be a great trouble to you, Betty," with graceful Hesitation, "I think we should like some."

"Arrah! throuble is it?" says Betty, scornfully. "Tisn't throuble I'm thinkin' of anyway, when you're by."

"Will you have something to eat Geoffrey?" says Mona.

"Thank you," says Geoffrey, "but----"

"Yes, do, alannah!" says the old lady, standing with one hand upon her hips and the other holding tightly a prodigious "Champion." "'Twill set ye up afther yer walk."

"Then, thank you, Mrs. Corcoran, I _will_ have a potato," says Rodney, gratefully, honest hunger and the knowledge that it will please Mona to be friendly with "her people," as she calls them, urging him on. "I'm as hungry as I can be," he says.

"So ye are, bless ye both!" says old Betty, much delighted, and forthwith, going to her dresser, takes down two plates, and two knives and forks, of pattern unknown and of the purest pot-metal, after which she once more returns to the revered potatoes.

Geoffrey, who would be at any moment as polite to a dairymaid as to a d.u.c.h.ess, follows her, and, much to her discomfort,--though she is too civil to say so,--helps her to lay the table. He even insists on filling a dish with the potatoes, and having severely burned his fingers, and having n.o.bly suppressed all appearance of pain,--beyond the dropping of two or three of the esculent roots upon the ground,--brings them in triumph to the spot where Mona is sitting.

"It might be that ye'd take a dhrop of new milk, too," says Betty, "on hospitable thoughts intent," placing before her visitors a little jug of milk she has all day been keeping apart, poor soul! for her own delectation.

Not knowing this, Mona and Geoffrey (whose flask is empty) accept the proffered milk, and make merry over their impromptu feast, while in the background, the old woman smiles upon them and utters little kindly sentences.

Ten minutes later, having bidden their hostess a hearty farewell, they step out into the open air and walk towards the farm.

"You have never told me how many people are in your house?" says Mona, presently. "Tell me now. I know about your mother, and," shyly, "about Nicholas; but is there any one else?"

"Well, Jack is home by this time, I suppose,--that's my second brother; at least he was expected yesterday; and Violet Mansergh is very often there; and as a rule, you know, there is always somebody; and that's all."

The description is graphic, certainly.

"Is--is Violet Mansergh a pretty girl?" asks Mona, grasping instinctively at the fact that any one called Violet Mansergh may be a possible rival.

"Pretty? No. But she dresses very swagger, and always looks nice, and is generally correct all through," replies Mr. Rodney, easily.

"I know," says Mona, sadly.

"She's the girl my mother wanted me to marry, you know," goes on Rodney, un.o.bservant, as men always are, of the small signals of distress hung out by his companion.

"Oh, indeed!" says Mona; and then, with downcast eyes, "but I _don't_ know, because you never told me before."

"I thought I did," says Geoffrey, waking slowly to a sense of the situation.

"Well, you didn't," says Mona. "Are you engaged to her?"

"If I was, how could I ask you to marry me?" returns he, in a tone so hurt that she grows abashed.

"I hope she isn't in love with you," she says, slowly.

"You may bet anything you like on that," says Geoffrey, cheerfully. "She cares for me just about as much as I care for her,--which means exactly nothing."

"I am very glad," says Mona, in a low tone.

"Why, Mona?"

"Because I could not bear to think any one was made unhappy by me. It would seem as though some evil eye was resting on our love," says Mona, raising her thoughtful, earnest eyes to his. "It must be a sad thing when our happiness causes the misery of others."

"Yet even were it so you would love me, Mona?"

"I shall always love you," says the girl, with sweet seriousness, "better than my life. But in that case I should always, too have a regret."

"There is no need for regret, darling," says he. "I am heart-whole, and I know no woman that loves me, or for whose affection I should ask, except yourself."

"I am indeed dear to you, I think," says Mona, softly and thankfully, growing a little pale through the intensity of her emotion.

"'Perdition catch my soul, but I do love thee,'" replies he, quite as softly.

Then she is pleased, and slips her hand into his, and goes along the quiet road, beside him with a heart in which high jubilee holds sway.

"Now tell me something else," she says, after a little bit. "Do all the women you know dress a great deal?"