To-day—that "liberal worldling," that "gay philosopher"—is here; and last night belongs to us only in so far as it deserves a place in our memory or has forced itself there in spite of our and .  
To Rodney, last night is one ever to be remembered as being a period almost without end, and as a perfect of how seven hours can be made to feel like twenty-one.
 
Thus at odd moments time can treble itself; but with the blessed daylight come comfort and renewed hope, and Geoffrey, greeting with the happy morn, that,
 
"Waked by the circling hours, with hand
Unbars the gates of light,"
tells himself that all may yet be right betwixt him and his love.
 
His love at this moment—which is closing upon noon—is in her cool dairy upon business thoughts intent yet with a certain look of expectation and anxiety upon he face,—a listening look may best express it.
 
To-morrow will be market-day in Bantry, to which the week's butter must go; and now the churning is over, and the result of it lies cold and rich and fresh beneath Mona's eyes. She herself is busily engaged printing little pats off a large roll of butter that rests on the before her; her sleeves are carefully tucked up, as on that first day when Geoffrey saw her; and in of her own heart—which knows itself to be sad—she is lilting some little foolish lay, bright and shallow as the October sunshine that floods the room, lying in small silken patches on the walls and floor.
 
In the distance a woman is bending over a keeler making up a huge mass of butter into rolls, nicely squared and smoothed, to make them look their best and handsomest to-morrow.
 
"An' a nate color too," says this woman, who is bare-footed, beneath her breath, regarding with the yellow of the object on which she is engaged. Two pullets, feathered like a partridge, are creeping stealthily into the dairy, their heads turned knowingly on one side, their steps slow and cautious; not even the faintest chirrup escapes them, lest it be the cause of their instant dismissal. There is no sound anywhere but the soft music that falls from Mona's lips.
 
Suddenly a bell rings in the distance. This is the signal for the men to cease from work and go to their dinners. It must be two o'clock.
 
Two o'clock! The song dies away, and Mona's brow contracts. So late!—the day is slipping from her, and as yet no word, no sign.
 
The bell stops, and a loud knock at the hall-door takes its place. Was ever sweeter sound heard anywhere? Mona draws her breath quickly, and then as though ashamed of herself goes on stoically with her task. Yet for all her stoicism her color comes and goes, and now she is pale, and now ", rosy red, love's proper hue," and now a little smile comes up and irradiates her face.
 
So he has come back to her. There is triumph in this thought and some natural vanity, but above and beyond all else a great relief that lifts from her the deadly fear that all night has been consuming her and has robbed her of her rest. Now anxiety is at an end, and joy , born of the knowledge that by his speedy surrender he has proved himself her own indeed, and she herself indispensable to his content.
 
"'Tis the English gintleman, miss,—Misther Rodney. He wants to see ye," says the fair Bridget, putting her head in at the , and speaking in a hushed and tone.
 
"Very well: show him in here," says Mona, very distinctly, going on with the printing of her butter with a courage that deserves credit. There is acrimony in her tone, but laughter in her eyes. While acknowledging a faint soreness at her heart she is still amused at his prompt, and therefore flattering, subjection.
 
Rodney, standing on the threshold at the end of the small hall, can hear distinctly all that passes.
 
"Here, miss,—in the dairy? Law, Miss Mona! don't"
 
"Why?" demands her mistress, somewhat . "I suppose even the English gentleman, as you call him, can see butter with dying! Show him in at once."
 
"But in that , miss, and wid yer arms bare-like, an' widout yer purty blue bow; law, Miss Mona, have sinse, an' don't ye now."
 
"Show Mr. Rodney in here, Bridget," says Mona unflinchingly, not looking at the maid, or indeed at anything but the unobservant butter. And Bridget, with a sigh that strongly resembles the snort of a war-horse, Mr. Rodney into the dairy.
 
"You?" says Mona, with extreme and an unpleasant amount of well-feigned . She does not to go to meet him, or even turn her head altogether in his direction, but just throws a swift and studiously unfriendly glance at him from under her long .
 
"Yes" replies he, slowly as though regretful that he cannot deny his own identity.
 
"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 .
 
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 something. Is it a smile?—he cannot tell. And indeed presently, as though to 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 . "Why don't you go into the ? 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 .
 
"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 butter is finished, you can go and feed the ." There is a business-like air about her whole manner disheartening to a lover out of court.
 
"Very good, miss; I'm going," says the woman, and with a last touch to the butter 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 passion as between the opposite sexes 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 clever you are," he says, presently, 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............