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 hatred and repugnance.

to rodney, last night is one ever to be remembered as being a period almost without end, and as a perfect specimen 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 rapture the happy morn, that,

"waked by the circling hours, with rosy 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 standing 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 slab before her; her sleeves are carefully tucked up, as on that first day when geoffrey saw her; and in defiance 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 admiration the yellow tint 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 "celestial, 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 reigns, 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 doorway, and speaking in a hushed and subdued 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 haughtily. "i suppose even the english gentleman, as you call him, can see butter with dying! show him in at once."

"but in that apron, 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 distressed maid, or indeed at anything but the unobservant butter. and bridget, with a sigh that strongly resembles the snort of a war-horse, ushers mr. rodney into the dairy.

"you?" says mona, with extreme hauteur and an unpleasant amount of well-feigned astonishment. she does not deign 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 lashes.

"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 abject.

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 conceal something. is it a smile?—he cannot tell. and indeed presently, as though to dispel 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 courteously. "why don't you go into the parlor? 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 genially.

"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 calves." there is a business-like air about her whole manner eminently 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 subsisting 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 awfully clever you are," he says, presently, alluding 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 could not wear a double face."

"that is just like me," says mr. rodney, unblushingly—"the very image of me."

"is it?"—witheringly. then, with some impatience, "you will be far happier in an arm-chair: do go into the parlor. there is really no reason why you should remain here."

"there is,—a reason not to be surpassed. and as to the parlor,"—in a melancholy tone,—"i could not be happy there, or anywhere, just at present. unless, indeed,"—this in a very low but carefully distinct tone,—"it be here!"

a pause. mona mechanically but absently goes on with her work, avoiding all interchange of glances with her deceitful lover. the deceitful lover is plainly meditating a fresh attack. presently he overturns an empty churn and seats himself on the top of it in a dejected fashion.

"i never saw the easy-chair i could compare with this," he says, as though to himself, his voice full of truth.

this is just a little too much. mona gives way. standing well back from her butter, she lets her pretty rounded bare arms fall lightly before her to their full length, and as her fingers clasp each other she turns to rodney and breaks into a peal of laughter sweet as music.

at this he would have drawn her into his arms, hoping her gayety may mean forgiveness and free absolution for all things said and done the day before; but she recoils from him.

"no, no," she says; "all is different now, you know, and you should never have come here again at all; but"—with charming inconsequence—"why did you go away last evening without bidding me good-night?"

"my heart was broken, and by you: that was why. how could you say the cruel things you did? to tell me it would be better for me to cut my throat than marry you! that was abominable of you, mona, wasn't it now? and to make me believe you meant it all, too!" says this astute young man.

"i did mean it. of course i cannot marry you," says mona, but rather weakly. the night has left her in a somewhat wavering frame of mind.

"if you can say that again now, in cold blood, after so many hours of thought, you must be indeed heartless," says rodney; "and"—standing up—"i may as well go."

he moves towards the door with "pride in his port, defiance in his eye," as goldsmith would say.

"well, well, wait for one moment," says mona, showing the white feather at last, and holding out to him one slim little hand. he seizes it with avidity, and then, placing his arm round her waist with audacious boldness, gives her an honest kiss, which she returns with equal honesty.

"now let us talk no more nonsense," says rodney, tenderly. "we belong to each other, and always shall, and that is the solution of the whole matter."

"is it?" says she, a little wistfully. "you think so now; but if afterwards you should know regret, or——"

"oh, if—if—if!" interrupts he. "is it that you are afraid for yourself? remember there is 'beggary in the love that can be reckoned.'"

"that is true," says mona; "but it does not apply to me; and it is for you only i fear. let me say just this: i have thought it all over; there were many hours in which to think, because i could not sleep——"

"neither could i," puts in geoffrey. "but it was hard on you, my darling."

"and this is what i would say: in one year from this i will marry you, if"—with a faint tremble in her tone—"you then still care to marry me. but not before."

"a year! an eternity!"

"no; only twelve months,"—hastily; "say no more now: my mind is quite made up."

"last week, mona, you gave me your promise to marry me before christmas; can you break it now? do you know what an old writer says? 'thou oughtest to be nice even to superstition in keeping thy promises; and therefore thou shouldst be equally cautious in making them.' now, you have made yours in all good faith, how can you break it again?"

"ah! then i did not know all," says mona. "that was your fault. no; if i consent to do you this injury you shall at least have time to think it over."

"do you distrust me?" says rodney,—this time really hurt, because his love for her is in reality deep and strong and thorough.

"no,"—slowly,—"i do not. if i did, i should not love you as—as i do."

"it is all very absurd," says rodney, impatiently. "if a year, or two, or twenty, were to go by, it would be all the same; i should love you then as i love you to-day, and no other woman. be reasonable, darling; give up this absurd idea."

"impossible," says mona.

"impossible is a word only to be found in the dictionary of fools. you are not a fool. this is a mere fad of yours and i think you hardly know why you are insisting on it."

"i do know," says mona. "first, because i would have you weigh everything carefully, and——"

"yes, and——"

"you know your mother will object to me," says mona, with an effort, speaking hurriedly, whilst a little fleck of scarlet flames into her cheeks.

"stuff!" says mr. rodney; "that is only piling ossa upon pelion: it will bring you no nearer the clouds. say you will go back to the old arrangement and marry me next month, or at least the month after."

"no."

she stands away from him, and looks at him with a face so pale, yet so earnest and intense, that he feels it will be unwise to argue further with her just now. so instead he takes both her hands and draws her to his side again.

"oh, mona, if you could only know how wretched i was all last night," he says; "i never put in such a bad time in my life."

"yes; i can understand you," said mona, softly, "for i too was miserable."

"do you recollect all you said, or one-half of it? you said it would be well if i hated you."

"that was very nasty of me," confesses mona. "yet," with a sigh, "perhaps i was right."

"now, that is nastier," says geoffrey; "unsay it."

"i will," says the girl, impulsively, with quick tears in her eyes. "don't hate me, my dearest, unless you wish to kill me; for that would be the end of it."

"i have a great mind to say something uncivil to you, if only to punish you for your coldness," says geoffrey, lightly, cheered by her evident sincerity. "but i shall refrain, lest a second quarrel be the result, and i have endured so much during these past few hours that

'as i am a christian faithful man

i would not spend another such a night

though 'twere to buy a world of happy days.'

from the hour i parted from you till i saw you again i felt downright suicidal."

"but you didn't cut your throat, after all," says mona, with a wicked little grimace.

"well, no; but i dare say i shall before i am done with you. besides, it occurred to me i might as well have a last look at you before consigning my body to the grave."

"and an unhallowed grave, too. and so you really felt miserable when angry with me? how do you feel now?" she is looking up at him, with love and content and an adorable touch of coquetry in her pretty face.

"'i feel that i am happier than i know,'" quotes he, softly, folding her closely to his heart.

so peace is restored, and presently, forsaking the pats of butter and the dairy, they wander forth into the open air, to catch the last mild breezes that belong to the dying day.