"And you really mustn't think us such very big people," says Geoffrey, in a deprecating tone, "because we are any thing but that, and, in fact,"—with a sharp of his brow that inward grief,—"there is rather a cloud over us just now."  
"A cloud?" says Mona. And I think in her inmost heart she is rather glad than otherwise that her lover's people are not on the top rung of the ladder.
 
"Yes,—in a regular hole, you know," says Mr. Rodney. "It is rather a complicated story, but the truth is, my grandfather hated his son—my uncle who went to Australia—like poison, and when dying left all the property—none of which was entailed—to his second son, my father."
 
"That was a little unfair, wasn't it?" says Mona. "Why didn't he divide it?"
 
"Well, that's just it," returns he. "But, you see, he didn't. He willed the whole thing to my father. He had a long conversation with my mother the very night before his death, in which he mentioned this will, and where it was locked up, and all about it; yet the curious part of the whole matter is this, that on the morning after his death, when they made search for this will, it was nowhere to be found! Nor have we heard tale or tidings of it ever since Though of the fact that it was duly signed, sealed, and delivered there is no doubt."
 
"How strange!" says Mona. "But how then did you manage?"
 
"Well, just then it made little difference to us, as, shortly after my grandfather went off the hooks, we received what we believed to be tidings of my uncle's death."
 
"Yes?" says Mona, who looks and is, intensely interested.
 
"Well, belief, however strong, goes a short way sometimes. An short way with us."
 
"But your uncle's death made it all right, didn't it?"
 
"No, it didn't: it made it all wrong. But for that lie we should not be in the predicament in which we now find ourselves. You will understand me better when I tell you that the other day a young man turned up who declares himself to be my uncle George's son, and heir to his land and title. That was a blow. And, as this wretched will is not forthcoming, I fear he will inherit everything. We are disputing it, of course, and are looking high and low for the missing will that should have been sought for at the first. But it's very shaky the whole affair."
 
"It is terrible," says Mona, with such exceeding earnestness that he could have hugged her on the spot.
 
"It is very hard on Nick," he says .
 
"And he is your cousin, this strange young man?"
 
"Yes, I suppose so," replies Mr. Rodney, reluctantly. "But he don't look like it. Hang it, you know," exclaims he, , "one can stand a good deal, but to have a fellow who wears carbuncle rings, and speaks of his mother as the 'old girl,' call himself your cousin, is more than flesh and blood can put up with: it's—it's worse than the ."
 
"It is very hard on Sir Nicholas," says Mona, who would not call him "Nick" now for the world.
 
"Harder even than you know. He is engaged to one of the dearest little girls possible, but of course if this affair terminates in favor of—" he hesitates palpably, then says with an effort—"my cousin, the engagement comes to an end."
 
"But why?" says Mona.
 
"Well, he won't be exactly a catch after that, you know," says Rodney, sadly. "Poor old Nick! it will be a come-down for him after all these years."
 
"But do you mean to tell me the girl he loves will give him up just because fortune is frowning on him?" asks Mona, slowly. "Sure she couldn't be so mean as that."
 
"It won't be her fault; but of course her people will object, which amounts to the same thing. She can't go against her people, you know."
 
"I don't know," says Mona unconvinced. "I would go against all the people in the world rather than be bad to you. And to him, too, at the very time when he will most want sympathy, at the very hour of his great trouble. Oh! that is ! I shall not like her, I think."
 
"I am sure you will, notwithstanding. She is the gayest, brightest creature imaginable, just such another as yourself. If it be true that 'birds of a feather flock together,' you and she must . You may not get on well with Violet Mansergh, who is somewhat reserved, but I know you will be quite friends with Doatie."
 
"What is her name?"
 
"She is Lord Steyne's second daughter. The family name is Darling. Her name is Dorothy."
 
"A pretty name, too."
 
"Yes, old-fashioned. She is always called Doatie Darling by her familiars, which sounds funny. She is quite charming, and loved by every one."
 
"Yet she would her love, would betray him for the sake of lucre," says Mona, gravely. "I cannot understand that."
 
"It is the way of her world. There is more in training than one quite knows. Now, you are altogether different. I know that; it is perhaps the reason why you have made my heart your own. Do not think it flattery when I tell you there are very few like you, Mona, in the world; but I would have you be generous. Do not let your make you harsh to others. That is a common fault; and all people, darling, are not charactered alike."
 
"Am I harsh?" says Mona, wistfully.
 
"No, you are not," says Geoffrey, grieved to the heart that he could have used such a word towards her. "You are nothing that is not sweet and adorable. And, besides all this, you are, I know, itself. I feel (and am thankful for the knowledge) that were fate to 'steep me in poverty to the very lips,' you would still be faithful to me."
 
"I should be all the more faithful: it is then you would feel your need of me," says Mona, simply. Then, as though puzzled, she goes on with a little sigh, "In time perhaps, I shall understand it all, and how other people feel, and—if it will please you, Geoffrey—I shall try to like the girl you call Doatie."
 
"I wish Nick didn't like her so much," says Geoffrey, sadly. "It will cut him up more than all the rest, if he has to give her up."
 
"Geoffrey," says Mona, in a low tone, slipping her hand into his in a half-shamed fashion, "I have five hundred pounds of my own, would it—would it be of any use to Sir Nicholas?"
 
Rodney is deeply touched.
 
"No, darling, no; I am afraid not," he says, very gently. But for the poor child's tender earnestness and good faith, he could almost have felt some faint amusement; but this offering of hers is to him a sacred thing, and to treat her words as a jest is a thought far from him. Indeed, to give offence to any one, by either word or action, would be very foreign to his nature. For if "he is gentil that doth gentil dedis" be true, Rodney to his finger-tips is gentleman indeed.
 
It is growing dusk; "the shades of night are falling fast," the cold pale sun, that all day long has cast its chill October beams upon a leafless world, has now sunk behind the distant hill, and the sad silence of the coming night hath set her finger with deep touch upon creation's brow.
 
"Do you know," says Mona, with a slight shiver, and a little nervous laugh, pressing closer to her side, "I have lost half my courage of late? I seem to be always anticipating evil."
 
Down from the mountain's top the shadows are creeping stealthily: all around is growing dim, and vague, and mysterious, in the uncertain light.
 
"Perhaps I feel nervous because of all the unhappy things one hears daily," goes on Mona, in a voice. "That murder at Oola, for instance: that was horrible.'
 
"Well but a murder at Oola isn't a murder here, you know," says Mr. Rodney, airily. "Let us wait to be until it comes home to ourselves,—which indeed, may be at any moment, your countrymen are of such a very playful . Do you remember what a lively time we had of it the night we ran to Maxwell's assistance, and what an escape he had?"
 
"Ay! so he had, an escape you will never know," says a voice at this moment, that makes Mona's heart almost cease to beat. An instant later, and two men jump up from the dark ditch in which they have been evidently hiding, and confront Rodney with a look of satisfaction upon their faces.
 
At this first glance he recognizes them as being the two men with whom Mona had attempted argument and on the night elected for Maxwell's murder. T............