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, , as though haste has got no part with them. The heavens are clothed in . 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 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 , they go to him, and, round him, at last open their great into a satisfied yawn, and, raising themselves, rest their paws upon his breast and rub their faces 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, the handsome creatures as they at his feet. "Where did you get them?"
 
"From Mr. Moore." A 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 , where pairs are in question, whether they be dogs or ."
 
"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 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 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 himself altogether. He is a stalwart young Hibernian, with rough hair and an honest face, and gray eyes, merry and cunning, and so many 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 , 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 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 for the loveliness before them.
 
From the high hill on which they stand, steep rocks until they touch the water's edge, which lies sleeping beneath them, into by the moon as she comes forth "from the slow opening curtains of the clouds."
 
Far down below lies the bay, calm and . Not a , not a sigh comes to disturb its or 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 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, 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 on guarding her against all evil.
 
Geoffrey, although in reality deeply impressed by the of all the surroundings, yet cannot keep his eyes from Mona's face, her pretty attitude, her two . 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 in his tone as touches and gladdens the heart of the little 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 charm that Nature as a rule flings over her choicest paintings.
 
To him, however, all is different; and the hour is with a tremulous joy, and with a vague sweet that means love as yet .
 
"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 in of any kind. "What poets do you prefer?"
 
"I have read so few," she says, wistfully, and with . 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 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 upon hers.
 
"Yes; Gabriel—poor Gabriel and Evangeline," returns she, too wrapped up in recollections of that sad and tale to take to heart his meaning:—
 
'Meanwhile, apart, in the 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 ; "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 moon, the queen of heaven's bright ,
Who makes all beautiful on which she smiles!
That wandering of soft yet icy flame,
Which ever is transformed, yet still the same,
And warms, but not illumines."
He finishes; but, to his , and a good deal to his , on looking at Mona he finds she is wreathed in smiles,—, 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 her merriment. "It reminded me so much of that speech about tea, that they always use at temperance meetings; they call it the 'that cheers but not .' 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 . "I couldn't help it, and it was like it, you know."
 
"Angry? no!" he says, recovering himself, as he notices the on the face upraised to his.
 
"And do say it is like it," says Mona, .
 
"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 there for the night,—an' I see ivery 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 man[oe]uvre, 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 action. Mickey disbelieves in it.
 
"I didn't make up the , 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.
 
" 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 , 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 : I can a'most hear them."
 
"I shouldn't think deafness is in your family," says Geoffrey, .
 
"No, sir; it isn't, sir. We're none of us hard of hearin' glory be to——. Miss Mona," , "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 " moons," at half-past ten at night. It is now nine, and she cannot yet bear to turn her back upon the scene before her. Surely in another hour or so it will be time enough to think of home and all other such 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 . She is so unlike all other women he has ever met, with their petty affectations and mock , their would-be 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 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 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 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 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 . "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 all her life in the fashionable world, she could scarcely have made a more correct speech. Geoffrey is puzzled, nay more, . Just in this wise would a woman in his own set answer him, did she mean to his advances for the moment. He forgets that no of worldliness 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 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, by his studied silence. "But," , "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 all night, pulls it to pieces 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 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 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, . 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 , 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," 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," she, , 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 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 . 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 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 you have got into your head you are 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 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 , and, having plucked a leaf from the hedge near her, is absently with it as it lies upon her little trembling palm.
 
It is a blackberry-leaf from a bush near where she is , that has turned from green into a warm and vivid . 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 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 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 . Lifting it almost , 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 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 and perfect faith and trust bring her very near to heaven!