'Yet in spite of all the fine feathers, no one ever crept into my heart, but my own Mona,' says the young man, putting his hand beneath her chin, which is softe and rounded as a baby's, and turning her face to his. He hates to see the faint chagrin that lingers on it for a moment; for his is one of those tender natures that cannot bear to see the thing it loves endure the smallest torment.

6

'Some women in the great world overdo it,' he goes on, and choose things and colours utterly unsuited to their style. They are slaves to fashion. But―

"My love in her attire doth show her wit;

It doth so well become her."'

Ah, how you flatter,' says Mona. Nevertheless, being a woman and the flattery being directed to her self, she takes it kindly.

'No, you must not think that. To wear anything that becomes you must be the perfection of dressing. Why wear a Tam O'Shanter hat when one looks hideous in it? And then too much study spoils effect; you know what Herrick says:

"A careless shce-string, in whose tie
I see a wild civility,

Does more bewitch me than when art
Is too precise in every part."

'How pretty that is! me, if only for once, as Mona.

Yet I should like you to see you have seen others,' says

'I should like it, too. And it could be managed, couldn't it? I suppose I could get you a dress.'

He says this quickly, yet fearfully. If she should take his proposal badly, what shall he do? He stares with flattering persistency upon a distant donkey that adorns a neighbouring field, and calmly awaits fate. It is for once kind to him. Mona, it is quite evident fails to see any impropriety in his speech.

'Could you?' she says hopefully.

How?'

6

Mr. Rodney basely forsaking the donkey returns to his mutton.

'There must be a dressmaker in Dublin,' he says, ' and we could write to her. Don't you know one ?'

'I don't, but I know Lady Mary and Miss Blake always get their things from a woman called Manning.'

Then Manning it shall be,' says Geoffrey gaily. 'I'll run up to Dublin, and if you give me your measure I'll bring a gown back to you.'

'Oh no, don't,' says Mona earnestly. stops short, and blushes a faint sweet crimson.

Then she

'But why?' demands he, dense as men will be at times. Then as she refuses to enlighten his ignorance, slowly the truth dawns upon him.

'Do you mean that you would really miss me if I left you for only one day?' he asks delightedly. 'Mona, tell me the truth.'

'Well, then, sure, you know I would,' confesses she, shyly but honestly. Whereupon rapture ensues that lasts for a full minute.

'Very well, then, I shan't leave you, but you shall have that dress all the same,' he says. "How shall we arrange about it?'

'I can give you the size of my waist and my shoulders, and my length,' says Mona thoughtfully, yet with a touch of inspiration.

'And what colour becomes you? Blue? That would suit your eyes, and it was blue you used to wear last month.'

6

Geoffrey, if

Yes, blue looks very nice on me. Uncle Brian hears of this, will he be angry?'

'We needn't risk it. And it is no harm, darling, because you will soon be my wife, and then I shall give you everything. When the dress comes I'll send it up to you by my man, and you must manage the rest.'

I'll see about it. And, oh, Geoffrey, I do hope you will like me in it, and think me pretty,' she says anxiously, half fearful of this gown that is meant to

transform a 'beggar maid' into a queen fit for 'King Cophetua.' At least such is her reading of the part before her.

And so it is arranged. And that evening Geoffrey indites a letter to Mrs. Manning, Grafton Street, Dublin, that brings a smile to the lips of that cunning modiste.

CHAPTER IX.

HOW GEOFFREY AND MONA DILIGENTLY WORK UP THE TRANSFORMATION SCENE; AND HOW SUCCESS CROWNS THEIR EFFORTS.

In due course the wonderful gown arrives, and is made welcome at the farm, where Geoffrey too puts in an appearance about two hours later.

Mona is down at the gate waiting for him, evidently brimful of information.

'Well, you have got it?' asks he in a whisper. Mystery seems to encircle them, and to make heavy the very air they breathe. In truth, I think it is the veil of secrecy that envelops their small intrigue that makes it so sweet to them. They might be children, so delighted are they with the success of their scheme.

'Yes, I have got it,' also in a subdued whisper. And, ob, Geoffrey, it is just too lovely. It's downright delicious; and satin, too! It must'-eproachfully--have cost a great deal, and after all you told me about being poor! But,' with a sudden change of tone, forgetting reproach, and extravagance and everything, it is exactly the colour I love best, and what I have been dreaming of for years.'

'Put it on you,' says Geoffrey.

What, now?' with some hesitation, yet plainly filled with an overpowering desire to show herself to him without loss of time in the adorable gown. If I should be seen! Well, never mind, I'll risk it. Go down to the little green glade in the wood, and I'll be with you before you can say "Jack Robinson."

She disappears, and Geoffrey, obedient to orders,

lounges off to the green glade that now no longer owns rich colouring, but is strewn with leaves from the gaunt trees that stand in solemn order like grave sentries round it.

He might have invoked 'Jack Robinson' a score of times had he so wished, he might even have gone for a very respectable walk before his eyes are again gladdened by a sight of Mona. Minutes have given place to minutes many times, when, at length, a figure wrapped in a long cloak and with a light woollen shawl covering her head, comes quickly towards him across the rustic bridge, and under the leafless trees to where he is standing.

Glancing round fearfully for a moment, as though desirous of making sure that no strange eyes are watching her movements, she lets the loose cloak fall to the ground, and taking with careful haste the covering from her head, slips, like Cinderella, from her ordinary garments into all the glories of a fête gown. She steps a little to one side, and, throwing up her head with a faint touch of coquetry that sits very sweetly on her, glances triumphantly at Geoffrey, as though fully conscious that she is looking exquisite as a dream.

The dress is composed of satin of that peculiar pale blue that, in some side lights, appears as white. It is opened at the neck, and has no sleeves to speak of. As though some kindly fairy had indeed been at her beck and call, and had watched with careful eyes the cutting of the robe, it fits to a charm. Upon her head a little mob cap, a very marvel of blue satin and old lace, rests lovingly, making still softer the soft tender face beneath it.

There is a sparkle in Mona's eyes, a slight severing of her lips that bespeaks satisfaction, and betrays her full of very innocent appreciation of her own beauty. She stands well back, with her head held proudly up, and with her hands lightly clasped before her. Her attitude is full of unstudied grace.

Her eyes, as I tell you, are shining like twin stars.