Mrs. Geoffrey

ste the moments seem. They are to them replete with love and happiness and sweet content. To-day is an accomplishe

and Brian Scully (though with sufficient national pride to suppress all undue delight at the young man's proposal) has given a hearty consent to their union, and is in reality flattered and pleased b

em his darling) will be received. It is not cowardice that holds his pen, as, were all the world to kneel at his feet and implore him or bribe him to renounce his love,

his reason he keeps silence until such time as, his marriage being a fait accompl

uileless nature being one calculated to create, with growing knowledge, an increasing admiration and tenderness.

grows glad within him as he walks along the road that leads to

fragrant, reigns. Far down, miles away, the waves

the waters,

an ocean hu

elief that summer has not yet forsaken them, are singing in the topmost branch

ore which the inevitable pig is wallowing in an unsavory pool, a voice comes to him, fresh and joyous, and plainly full of pleasu

alls to him

s. "Come in here, Ge

iting than otherwise) with more alacrity than he would show if asked to enter the queen's palace. Yet what is a palace but the abode of a sovereign? a

drawing the wool through her fingers; brown little f

happy tones that have been ringing

dued fashion. Hanging over it is a three-legged pot, in which boil the "pratie

ame sees plainly nothing strange in this embrace of Geoffrey's but rather something sweet and to be approved. She smiles amiably, and nods her old head, and mumbles some quaint Irish phrase about love and courtship and happy youth, as though the very sight of these handsome

imself welcome. Then she goes back again to the chimney-corner, and taking up the bellows, blows the fire beneath the potatoe

is coming a little closer to her. He is not slow to avail himself of this invitation, and is now sitting with his ar

ovely Marguerite," says Geoffrey, i

cture of Marguerite in the Gallery in Dublin, and it was very beautiful. I remember it brought tears to

eoffrey, with sudden compunction, "because you are going

ys Mona, gravely; "but at least I know," with a soft and tr

ing else follows, that, had she seen it, would have caused the weathe

offrey, presently, when they

, and can do nothing, and this much flax must be finished by a certain time. I

ted just in that gown, and with a spinning-wheel before you; and it

Mona, lookin

ake. For the moment he had forgotten his former declaration of poverty,

uzzled frown on her brow. "Oh, no, Geoffrey; I shouldn't like that

ward fashion, biting hi

ust be prepared for the fact that you will undoubtedly be stared at by

to read his face. "Am I so

erent," sa

aid of always," says M

owadays. One is nowhere if not bizarre," says Rodney, laughing; "

ling sweetly; and, lifting her hand, she pinches his e

ool during the past few minutes, and sniffing at the pot in an anxious manner, gives way

miration upon its steaming contents. "The murphies" (

ury. 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

f we won't be a great trouble to you, Betty," with

, scornfully. "Tisn't throuble I'm

mething to eat Ge

" says Geof

e hand upon her hips and the other holding tightly a pr

honest hunger and the knowledge that it will please Mona to be friendly with "her

her dresser, takes down two plates, and two knives and forks, of pattern unknown and

o,-helps her to lay the table. He even insists on filling a dish with the potatoes, and having severely burned his fingers, and having nobly suppressed a

spitable thoughts intent," placing before her visitors a little jug of mi

ffered milk, and make merry over their impromptu feast, while in the back

stess a hearty farewell, they step out in

says Mona, presently. "Tell me now. I know about your moth

at least he was expected yesterday; and Violet Mansergh is very often t

ion is graph

, grasping instinctively at the fact that any on

nd always looks nice, and is generally corre

says Mon

," goes on Rodney, unobservant, as men always are, of

ith downcast eyes, "but I don't know

eoffrey, waking slowly to

" says Mona. "Are

o marry me?" returns he, in a to

in love with you,"

rey, cheerfully. "She cares for me just about as mu

d," says Mona,

, Mo

ough some evil eye was resting on our love," says Mona, raising her thoughtful, earnes

it so you would

sweet seriousness, "better than my life. But in

am heart-whole, and I know no woman that loves me, o

na, softly and thankfully, growing a little

, but I do love thee,'" r

is, and goes along the quiet road, beside him

ays, after a little bit. "Do all th

siderable few who dress so little th

more than his words, that presently Mr. Rodney becomes conscious of a feeling akin to shame. Some remembrance of a li

ommon badly," he says, with muc

s too young when with Aunt Anastasia in Dublin to go out. Somehow, what one imagines is sure to be wrong

st water. That "life is thorny, and youth is vain" has not as yet occurred to either of these two. Nay, more, were you even to name this th

p that ever looks as if, in the words of the old song, "some be

yself in a regular evening

myself, but you,-in something handsome, you know, open at the neck, a

hould like to be sure before I marry you that-that-fashionable clothes would become me. But of course," regretfully, "you will unders

looks at the sky

, but biting a blade of grass in a distractingly pretty and somewhat p

amed in the same day," says Geoffrey, enthusiastically, wh

le look much better when they are

hers make fine birds, I suppose they d

gown in which she is clothed, and in which she is looking far sweeter than

neath her chin, which is soft and rounded as a baby's, and turning her face to his. He hates to see the faint chagrin that lingers

s on, "and choose things and colors utterly unsui

er attire doth

o well be

less, being a woman, and the flattery bein

perfection of dressing. Why wear a Tam O'Shanter hat when one looks hideou

shoe-string

wild c

ewitch me t

cise in ev

ke you to see me, if only for once,

uld be managed, couldn't it? I s

with flattering persistency upon a distant donkey that adorns a neighboring field, and calmly awaits f

she says hope

is mutton. "There must be a dressmaker in Dublin," he

d Miss Blake always get their thi

yly. "I'll run up to Dublin, and if you give

nestly. Then she stops short, a

t times. Then, as she refuses to enlighten hi

e if I left you for only one day?" he ask

sses she, shyly but honestly. Whereupon ra

you shall have that dress all the same,"

y shoulders, and my length," says Mona, th

that would suit your eyes, and it w

me. Geoffrey, if Uncle Brian h

on be my wife, and then I shall give you everything. When the dress

y," she says, anxiously, half fearful of this gown that is meant to transform a "beggar mai

es a letter to Mrs. Manning, Grafton Street, Dublin, t