And now what to be told? But little, I think! For my gentle Mona has reached that where she would be!  
Violet and Dorothy are to be married next month, both on the same day, at the same hour, in the same church,—St. George's Hanover Square, without telling. From old Lord Steyne's house in Mayfair, by Dorothy's special desire, both marriages are to take place, Violet's father being somewhat in his tastes, and in fact at this moment wandering aimlessly among the Himalayas.
 
Mona is happier than words can say. She is up to her eyes in the business, that business sweetest to a woman's soul, the ordering and directing and general management of a trousseau. In her case she is doubly blessed, because she has the supervizing of two!
 
Her sympathy is unbounded, her temper equal to the most trying occasion, her heart open to the most petty ; she is to the two girls an unfailing source of comfort, a refuge where they may unrebuked pour out the indignation against their dressmakers that seems to rage unceasingly within their breasts.
 
Indeed, as Dorothy says one day, out of the plenitude of her heart, "How we should possibly have got on without you, Mona, I to ."
 
Geoffrey happening to be present when this flattering remark is made, Violet turns to him and says impulsively,—
 
"Oh, Geoffrey, wasn't it well you went to Ireland and met Mona? Because if you had stayed on here last autumn we might have been induced to marry each other, and then what would have become of poor ?"
 
"What, indeed?" says Geoffrey, . "Worse still, what would have become of poor Mona?"
 
"What is it you would say?" exclaims Mona, threatingly, turning towards him a lovely face she vainly tries to clothe with anger.
 
"It is insupportable such an insinuation," says the lively Doatie. "Violet, Mona's cause is ours: what shall we do with him?"
 
"'Brain him with his lady's fan!'" quotes Violet, gayly, snatching up Mona's fan that lies on a prie-dieu near, and going up to Geoffrey.
 
So is her aspect that Geoffrey shows the white feather, and, crying "mea culpa," beats a hasty retreat.
 
From morn to dewy eve, nothing is discussed in or boudoir but flounces, frills, and furbelows,—three f's that are considered at the Towers of far more vital importance than those other three of Mr. Parnell's forming. And Mona, having proved herself quite in good taste in the matter of her own gowns, and almost an artist where coloring is concerned, is appealed to by both girls on all occasions about such things as must be had in readiness "Against their brydale day, which is not long."—As, for instance:—
 
"Mona, do you think Elise is right? she is so very positive; are you sure is the correct shade to go with this?" Or—
 
"Dearest Mona, I must interrupt you again. Are you very busy? No? Oh, then do come and look at the last Madame Verot has just sent. She says there will be nothing to equal it this season. But," in a heart-broken voice, "I cannot bring myself to think it becoming."
 
Lady Rodney, too, is quite happy. Everything has come right; all is smooth again; there is no longer cause for and never-ending fear. With Paul Rodney's death the latter feeling ceased, and Mona's greatness of heart has the former. She has conquered and laid her enemy low: without the use of any murderous force the walls have fallen down before her, and she has marched into the with colors flying.
 
Yet does she not triumph over her beaten ; , so different is it with her that she reaches her hand to raise her again, and strives by every tender means in her power to all memory of the unpleasant past.
 
And Lady Rodney is very willing that it should be . Just now, indeed, it is a favorite theory of hers that she could never have been really............