Old Brian Scully is in his , and comes to meet them as they enter the hall,—his pipe behind his back.  
"Come in, come in," he begins, cheerily, and then, sight of Mona's pale face, stops short. "Why, what has come to ye?" cries he, aghast, glancing from his niece to Rodney's discolored shirt and torn coat; "what has happened?"
 
"It was Tim Ryan," returns Mona, wearily, feeling unequal to a long story just at present.
 
"Eh, but this is bad news!" says old Scully, evidently terrified and disheartened by his niece's words. "Where will it all end? Come in, Misther Rodney: let me look at ye, boy. No, not a word out of ye now till ye taste something. 'Tis in bits ye are; an' a good coat it was this mornin'. There's the whiskey, Mona, agra, an' there's the wather. Oh! the black ! Let me examine ye, me son. Why, there's blood on ye! Oh! the murthering thief!"
 
So runs on the farmer, to the heart that such things should be,—and done upon Rodney of all men. He walks round the young man, muttering his indignation in a low tone, while him with gentle care to remove his coat,—or at least what of that once goodly garment that had for parent Mr. Poole.
 
"Where's the docther at all, at all?" says he, forcing Geoffrey into a chair, and turning to Biddy, who is open-mouthed in the , and who, though grieved, is plainly finding some pleasure in the situation. Being investigated, she informs them the "docther" is to-night on the top of Carrigfoddha Mountain, and, , "won't be home until morning."
 
"Now, what's to be done?" says old Brian, in despair. "I know, as well as if ye tould me, it is Norry Flannigan! Just like those wimmen to be always troublesome! Are ye sure Biddy?"
 
"Troth I am, sir. I see him goin' wid me own two eyes not an hour ago, in the gig an' the white horse, wid the eye an' the loose tail,—that looks for all the world as if it was screwed on to him. An' 'tisn't Norry is callin' for him nayther (though I don't say but she'll be on the way), but Larry Moloney the sweep. 'Tis a stitch he got this morning, an' he's gone intirely this time, the people say. An' more's the pity too, for a dacent sowl he was, an' more nor a mortial sweep."
 
This on the departing Larry she delivers with much unction, and a good deal of check in the corner of one eye.
 
"Never mind Larry," says the farmer, impatiently. "This is the seventh time he has died this year. But think of Misther Rodney here. Can't ye do something for him?"
 
"Sure Miss Mona can," says Biddy, turning to her young mistress, and standing in the doorway in her favorite position,—that is, with her bare arms akimbo, and her head to one side like a . "She's raal clever at dhressin' an' doctherin' an' that."
 
"Oh, no, I'm not clever," says Mona; "but"—nervously and with downcast eyes, addressing Geoffrey—"I might perhaps be able to make you a little more comfortable."
 
A strange feeling of shyness is weighing upon her. Her stalwart English lover is standing close beside her, having risen from his chair with his eyes on hers, and in his shirt-sleeves looking more than usually handsome because of his pallor, and because of the dark circles that, lying beneath his eyes, throw out their color, making them darker, deeper, than is their nature. How shall she bare the arm of this young Adonis?—how help to heal his wound? Oh, Larry Moloney, what hast thou not got to answer for!
 
She shrinks a little from the task, and would fain have it altogether; though there is happiness, too, in the thought that here is an occasion on which she may be of real use to him. Will not the very act itself bring her nearer to him? Is it not sweet to feel that it is in her power to ease his pain? And is she not only doing what a tender wife would gladly do for her husband?
 
Still she hesitates, though betraying no vulgar awkwardness or silly mauvaise honte. Indeed, the only sign of emotion she does show is a soft slow blush, that, mounting quickly, tips even her little ears with pink.
 
"Let her thry," says old Brian, in his soft, Irish brogue, that comes kindly from his tongue. "She's clever about most things."
 
"I hardly like to ask her to do it," says the young man, divided between an overpowering desire to be made "comfortable," as she has expressed it, and a fear that the sight of the nasty though harmless flesh-wound will cause her some . "Perhaps it will make you unhappy,—may shock you," he says to her, with some anxiety.
 
"No, it will not shock me," returns Mona, quietly; whereupon he sits down, and Biddy puts a basin on the table, and Mona, with trembling fingers, takes a scissors, and cuts away the shirt-sleeve from his wounded arm. Then she bathes it.
 
After a moment she turns deadly pale, and says, in a faint tone, "I know I am hurting you: I feel it." And in truth I believe the tender heart does feel it, much more than he does. There is an expression that amounts to agony in her beautiful eyes.
 
"You hurt me!" replies he, in a tone, that is not so peculiar but it satisfies her. And then he smiles, and, seeing old Brian has once more returned to the fire and his pipe, and Biddy has gone for fresh water, he stoops over the reddened basin, and, in spite of all the unromantic surroundings, kisses her as fondly as if roses and moonbeams and dripping fountains and perfumed exotics were on every side. And this, because true romance—that needs no outward fire to keep it warm—is in his heart.
 
And now Mona knows no more nervousness, but with a steady and practised hand up his arm, and when all is finished pushes him gently (very gently) from her, and "with heart on her lips, and soul within her eyes," surveys with pride her handiwork.
 
"Now I hope you will feel less pain," she says, with modest triumph.
 
"I feel no pain," returns he, .
 
"Well said!" cries the old man from the chimney-corner, slapping his knee with delight; "well said, indeed! It reminds me of the ould days when we'd swear to any lie to please the lass we loved. Ay, very good, very good."
 
At this Mona and Geoffrey break into silent laughter, being overcome by the insinuation about lying.
 
"Come here an' sit down, lad," says old Scully, unknowing of their secret mirth, "an' tell me all about it, from start to finish,—that Ryan's a thundering rogue,—while Mona sees about a bed for ye."
 
"Oh, no," says Rodney, hastily. "I have given quite too much trouble already. I assure you I am quite well enough now to ride back again to Bantry."
 
"To Bantry," says Mona, growing white again,—"to-night! Oh, do you want to kill me and yourself?"
 
"She has reason," says the old man, earnestly and approvingly, rounding his sentence after the French fashion, as the Irish so often will: "she has said it," he goes on, "she always does say it; she has brains, has my colleen. Ye don't stir out of this house to-night, Mr. Rodney; so make up yer mind to it. With Tim Ryan abroad, an' probably picked up and carried home by this time, the counthry will be all abroad, an' no safe thravellin' for man or . Here's a cosey for ye by the fire: sit down, lad, an' take life aisy."
 
"If I was quite sure I............