It is ten days later,—ten , interminable days, that have struggled into light, and sunk back again into darkness, leaving no trace of remembrance in their train. "Swift as swallows' wings" they have flown, scarce breaking the air in their flight, so silently, so evenly they have departed, as days will, when dull monotony marks them for its own.  
To-day is cool, and calm, and bright. Almost one fancies the first faint breath of spring has touched one's cheek, though as yet January has not wended to its weary close, and no smallest sign of growth or vegetation makes itself felt.
 
The grass is still brown, the trees barren, no ambitious floweret thrusts its head above the of its mother earth,—except, indeed, those "floures white and rede, such as men callen daisies," that always seem to beam upon the world, no matter how the wind blows.
 
Just now it is blowing softly, delicately, as though its fury of the night before had been an hallucination of the brain. It is "a sweet and wooer," says Longfellow, and lays siege to "the blushing leaf." There are no leaves for it to kiss to-day: so it its upon Mona as she wanders , close guarded by her two hounds that follow at her heels.
 
There is a strange and silence everywhere. The very clouds are motionless in their distant homes.
 
"There has not been a sound to-day
To break the calm of Nature:
Nor motion, I might almost say,
Of life, or living creature,
Of waving , or warbling bird,
Or cattle faintly lowing:
I could have half believed I heard
The leaves and blossoms growing."
Indeed, no sound disturbs the sacred silence save the crisp of the dead leaves, as they are trodden into the ground.
 
Over the meadows and into the wood goes Mona, to where a streamlet runs, that is her special joy,—being of the and order, which is, perhaps, the nearest approach to divine music that nature can make. But to-day the stream is , is enlarged beyond all recognition, and, being filled with pride at its own , has forgotten its little loving song, and is rushing with a passionate roar to the ocean.
 
Down from the in the rocks above the water comes with a will, , , shouting a loud paen as it flings itself into the arms of the vain beneath, that only yesterday-eve was a stream, but to-day may well be deemed a river.
 
Up high the rocks are overgrown with ferns, and things, all green and feathery, that hide small caves and crannies, through which the bright-eyed Naiads might peep whilst holding back with bare uplifted arms their hair, the better to gaze upon the unconscious earth outside.
 
A loose stone that has fallen from its home in the mountain-side above uprears itself in the middle of this turbulent stream. But it is too far from the edge, and Mona, on the , pauses, as though half afraid to take the step that must either land her safely on the other side or else her into the angry little river.
 
As she thus ponders within herself, Spice and Allspice, the two dogs, set up a simultaneous howl, and immediately afterwards a voice says, eagerly,—
 
"Wait, Mrs. Rodney. Let me help you across."
 
Mona starts, and, looking up, sees the Australian coming quickly towards her.
 
"You are very kind. The river is greatly swollen," she says, to gain time. Geoffrey, perhaps, will not like her to accept any civility at the hands of this common enemy.
 
"Not so much so that I cannot help you to cross over in safety, if you will only trust yourself to me," replies he.
 
Still she hesitates, and he is not slow to notice the pause.
 
"Is it worth so much thought?" he says, bitterly. "It surely will not injure you fatally to lay your hand in mine for one instant."
 
"You mistake me," says Mona, shocked at her own want of courtesy; and then she extends to him her hand, and, setting her foot upon the huge stone, springs lightly to his side.
 
Once there she has to go with him down the narrow woodland path, there being no other, and so paces on, silently, and sorely against her will.
 
"Sir Nicholas has sent me an invitation for the 19th," he says, presently, when the silence has become unendurable.
 
"Yes," says Mona, hoping he is going to say he means to refuse it. But such hope is wasted.
 
"I shall go," he says, , as though divining her secret wish.
 
"I am sure we shall all be very glad," she says, faintly, feeling herself bound to make some remark.
 
"Thanks!" returns he, with an laugh. "How excellently your tone agrees with your words?"
 
Another pause. Mona is on thorns. Will the branching path, that may give her a chance of escaping a further tete-a-tete with him, never be reached?
 
"So failed you?" he says, presently, to old Elspeth's nephew.
 
"Yes,—so far," returns she, coldly.
 
"It was a feeble effort," declares he, contemptuously striking with his the trunks of the trees as he goes by them.
 
"Yet I think Warden knows more than he cares to tell," says Mona, at a venture. Why, she herself hardly knows.
 
He turns, as though by an irrepressible impulse, to look keenly at her. His endures only for an instant. Then he says, with admirable indifference,—
 
"You have grounds for saying so, of course?"
 
"Perhaps I have. Do you deny I am in the right?" asks she, returning his gaze undauntedly.
 
He drops his eyes, and the low, laugh she has learned to know and to hate so much comes again to his lips.
 
"It would be rude to deny that," he says, with a slight . "I am sure you are always in the right."
 
"If I am, Warden surely knows more about the will than he has sworn to."
 
"It is very probable,—if there ever was such a will. How should I know? I have not cross-examined Warden on this or any other subject. He is an overseer over my estate, a servant, nothing more."
 
"Has he the will?" asks Mona, foolishly, but .
 
"He may have, and a stocking full of gold, and the roc's egg, or anything else, for aught I know. I never saw it. They tell me there was an and most unjust will up some years ago by old Sir George: that is all I know."
 
"By your grandfather!" corrects Mona, in a tone.
 
"Well, by my grandfather, if you so prefer it," repeats he, with much unconcern. "It got itself, if it ever existed, irretrievably lost, and that is all any one knows about it."
 
Mona is watching him intently.
 
"Yet I feel sure—I know," she says, tremulously, "you are hiding something from me. Why do you not look at me when you answer my questions?"
 
At this his dark face flames, and his eyes , yet almost against his will, seek hers.
 
"Why?" he says, with suppressed passion. "Because, each time I do, I know myself to be—what I am! Your eyes are mirrors in which my heart lies bare." With an effort he recovers himself, and, drawing his breath quickly, grows calm again. "If I were to gaze at you as often as I should desire, you would probably deem me impertinent," he says, with a into his former half-insolent tone.
 
"Answer me," persists Mona, not heeding—nay, scarcely hearing—his last speech. "You said once it would be difficult to lie to me. Do you know anything of this missing will?"
 
"A great deal. I should. I have heard of almost nothing else since my arrival in England," replies he, slowly.
 
"Ah! Then you refuse to answer me," says Mona, hastily, if somewhat wearily.
 
He makes no reply. And for a full minute no word is spoken between them.
 
Then Mona goes on quietly,—
 
"That night at Chetwoode you made use of some words that I have never forgotten since."
 
He is plainly surprised. He is indeed glad. His face changes, as if by magic, from gloom to pleasurable .
 
"You have remembered something that I said, for eleven days?" he says, quickly.
 
"Yes. When talking then of Sir Nicholas at the Towers, you of your project as a 'splendid scheme.' What did you mean by it? I cannot get the words out of my head since. Is 'scheme' an honest word?"
 
Her tone is only too significant. His face has grown black again. A heavy frown sits on his brow.
 
"You are not perhaps aware of it, but your tone is insulting," he begins, huskily. "Were you a man I could give you an answer, now, here; but as it is I am of course tied hand and foot. You can say to me what you please. And I shall bear it. Think as badly of me as you will. I am a schemer, a swindler, what you will!"
 
"Even in my thoughts I never those words to you," says Mona, earnestly. "Yet some feeling here"—laying her hand upon her heart—"compels me to believe you are not fairly by us." To her there is untruth in every line of his face, in every tone of his voice.
 
"You me without a hearing, swayed by the influence of a carefully educated dislike," retorts he:
 
"' for the rarity
Of charity
Under the sun!'
But I blame the people you have fallen among,—not you."
 
"Blame no one," says Mona. "But if there is anything in your own heart to condemn you, then pause before you go further in this matter of the Towers."
 
"I wonder you are not afraid of going too far," he puts in, warningly, his dark eyes flashing.
 
"I am afraid of nothing," says Mona, simply. "I am not half so much afraid as you were a few moments since, when you could not let your eyes meet mine, and when you shrank from answering me a simple question. In my turn I tell you to pause before going too far."
 
"Your advice is excellent," says he, . Then suddenly he stops short before her, and breaks out ,——
 
"Were I to fling up this whole business and resign my chance, and leave these people in possession, what would I gain by it?" demands he. "They have treated me from the beginning with ignominy and contempt. You alone have treated me with common civility; and even you they have tutored to regard me with eyes."
 
"You are wrong," says Mona, coldly. "They seldom trouble themselves to speak of you at all." This is crueller than she knows.
 
"Why don't I hate you?" he says, with some emotion. "How bitterly unkind even the softest, sweetest women can be! Yet there is something about you that me and renders impossible. If I had never met you, I should be a happier man."
 
"How can you be happy with a weight upon your heart?" says Mona, following out her own thoughts irrespective of his. "Give up this project, and peace will return to you."
 
"No, I shall pursue it to its end," returns, he, with slow , that makes her heart grow cold, "until the day comes that shall enable me to plant my heel upon these and crush them out of recognition."
 
"And after that what will remain to you?" asks she, pale but collected. "It is bare comfort when hatred alone in the heart. With such thoughts in your breast what can you hope for?—what can life give you?"
 
"Something," replies he, with a short laugh. "I shall at least see you again on the 19th."
 
He raises his hat, and, turning away, is soon lost to sight round a curve in the pathway. He walks and with an unflinching air, but when the curve has hidden him from her eyes he stops short, and sighs heavily.
 
"To love such a woman as that, and be beloved by her, how it would change a man's whole nature, no matter how low he may have sunk," he says, slowly. "It would mean ! But as it is—No, I cannot draw back now: it is too late."
 
Meantime Mona has gone quickly back to the Towers her mind disturbed and unsettled. Has she misjudged him? is it possible that his claim is a just one after all, and that she has been wrong in deeming him one who might his neighbor?
 
She is sad and before she reaches the hall door, where she is unfortunate enough to find a carriage just arrived, well filled with occupants eager to obtain admission.
 
They are the Carsons, in force, and, if anything, a trifle more noisy and oppressive than usual.
 
"How d'ye do, Mrs. Rodney? Is Lady Rodney at home? I hope so," says Mrs. Carson, a fat, florid, smiling, impossible person of fifty.
 
Now, Lady Rodney is at home, but, having given strict orders to the servants to say she is anywhere else they like,—that is, to tell as many lies as will save her from intrusion,—is just now calmly in the small drawing-room, sleeping the sleep of the just, unmindful of coming evil.
 
Of all this Mona is ; though even were it otherwise I doubt if a lie could come trippingly to her lips, or a nice be balanced th............