"And what has brought you?" demands she, not rudely or quickly, but as though desirous of obtaining information on a subject that puzzles her.

"An overwhelming desire to see you again," returns this wise young man, in a tone that is absolutely abject.

To this it is difficult to make a telling reply. Mona says nothing she only turns her head completely away from him, as if to conceal something. Is it a smile?--he cannot tell. And indeed presently, as though to dispel all such idea, she sighs softly but audibly.

At this Mr. Rodney moves a shade closer to her.

"What a very charming dairy!" he says, mildly.

"Very uncomfortable for you, I fear, after your long ride," says Mona, coldly but courteously. "Why don't you go into the parlor? I am sure you will find it pleasanter there."

"I am sure I should not," says Rodney.

"More comfortable, at least."

"I am quite comfortable, thank you."

"But you have nothing to sit on."

"Neither have you."

"Oh, I have my work to do; and besides, I often prefer standing."

"So do I, often,--_very_ often," says Mr. Rodney, sadly still, but genially.

"Are you sure?"--with cold severity. "It is only two days ago since you told me you loved nothing better than an easy-chair."

"Loved nothing better than a--oh, how you must have misunderstood me!"

says Rodney, with mournful earnestness, liberally sprinkled with reproach.

"I have indeed misunderstood you in _many_ ways." This is unkind, and the emphasis makes it even more so. "Norah, if the b.u.t.ter is finished, you can go and feed the calves." There is a business-like air about her whole manner eminently disheartening to a lover out of court.

"Very good, miss; I'm going," says the woman, and with a last touch to the b.u.t.ter she covers it over with a clean wet cloth and moves to the yard door. The two chickens on the threshold, who have retreated and advanced a thousand times, now retire finally with an angry "cluck-cluck," and once more silence reigns.

"We were talking of love, I think," says Rodney, innocently, as though the tender pa.s.sion as subsisting between the opposite s.e.xes had been the subject of the conversation.

"Of love generally?--no," with a disdainful glance,--"merely of your love of comfort."

"Yes, quite so: that is exactly what I meant," returns he, agreeably. It was _not_ what he meant; but that doesn't count. "How awfully clever you are," he says, presently, alluding to her management of the little pats, which, to say truth, are faring but ill at her hands.

"Not clever," says Mona. "If I were clever I should not take for granted--as I always do--that what people say they must mean. I myself could not wear a double face."

"That is just like me," says Mr. Rodney, unblushingly--"the very image of me."

"Is it?"--witheringly. Then, with some impatience, "You will be far happier in an arm-chair: do go into the parlor. There is really no reason why you should remain here."

"There is,--a reason not to be surpa.s.sed. And as to the parlor,"--in a melancholy tone,--"I could not be happy there, or anywhere, just at present. Unless, indeed,"--this in a very low but carefully distinct tone,--"it be here!"

A pause. Mona mechanically but absently goes on with her work, avoiding all interchange of glances with her deceitful lover. The deceitful lover is plainly meditating a fresh attack. Presently he overturns an empty churn and seats himself on the top of it in a dejected fashion.

"I never saw the easy-chair I could compare with this," he says, as though to himself, his voice full of truth.

This is just a little too much. Mona gives way. Standing well back from her b.u.t.ter, she lets her pretty rounded bare arms fall lightly before her to their full length, and as her fingers clasp each other she turns to Rodney and breaks into a peal of laughter sweet as music.

At this he would have drawn her into his arms, hoping her gayety may mean forgiveness and free absolution for all things said and done the day before; but she recoils from him.

"No, no," she says; "all is different now, you know, and you should never have come here again at all; but"--with charming inconsequence--"_why_ did you go away last evening without bidding me good-night?"

"My heart was broken, and by you: that was why. How could you say the cruel things you did? To tell me it would be better for me to cut my throat than marry you! That was abominable of you, Mona, wasn't it now?

And to make me believe you meant it all, too!" says this astute young man.

"I did mean it. Of course I cannot marry you," says Mona, but rather weakly. The night has left her in a somewhat wavering frame of mind.

"If you can say that again now, in cold blood, after so many hours of thought, you must be indeed heartless," says Rodney; "and"--standing up--"I may as well go."

He moves towards the door with "pride in his port, defiance in his eye,"

as Goldsmith would say.

"Well, well, wait for one moment," says Mona, showing the white feather at last, and holding out to him one slim little hand. He seizes it with avidity, and then, placing his arm round her waist with audacious boldness, gives her an honest kiss, which she returns with equal honesty.

"Now let us talk no more nonsense," says Rodney, tenderly. "We belong to each other, and always shall, and that is the solution of the whole matter."

"Is it?" says she, a little wistfully. "You think so now; but if afterwards you should know regret, or----"

"Oh, if--if--if!" interrupts he. "Is it that you are afraid for yourself? Remember there is 'beggary in the love that can be reckoned.'"

"That is true," says Mona; "but it does not apply to me; and it is for you only I fear. Let me say just this: I have thought it all over; there were many hours in which to think, because I could not sleep----"

"Neither could I," puts in Geoffrey. "But it was hard on you, my darling."

"And this is what I would say: in one year from this I will marry you, if"--with a faint tremble in her tone--"you then still care to marry me.

But not before."

"A year! An eternity!"

"No; only twelve months,"--hastily; "say no more now: my mind is quite made up."

"Last week, Mona, you gave me your promise to marry me before Christmas; can you break it now? Do you know what an old writer says? 'Thou oughtest to be nice even to superst.i.tion in keeping thy promises; and therefore thou shouldst be equally cautious in making them.' Now, you have made yours in all good faith, how can you break it again?"

"Ah! then I did not know all," says Mona. "That was your fault. No; if I consent to do you this injury you shall at least have time to think it over."

"Do you distrust me?" says Rodney,--this time really hurt, because his love for her is in reality deep and strong and thorough.

"No,"--slowly,--"I do not. If I did, I should not love you as--as I do."

"It is all very absurd," says Rodney, impatiently. "If a year, or two, or twenty, were to go by, it would be all the same; I should love you then as I love you to-day, and no other woman. Be reasonable, darling; give up this absurd idea."

"Impossible," says Mona.