istant
cousin having died most unexpectedly and left him all his property.

+ + + + +

Six months ago, Ulic Ronayne was spoken of by anxious matrons as a wild
lad, with nothing to recommend him save his handsome face and some
naughty stories attached to his name. Now he is pronounced charming, and
the naughty stories, which indeed never had any foundation, are
discovered to have been disgraceful fabrications. Marriageable daughters
are kinder to him than words can say, and are allowed by the most
cautious mothers to dance with him as often as they choose, and even to
sit unlimited hours with him in secluded corners of conservatories
unrebuked.

Truly, O Plutus! thou art a god indeed. Thou hast outlived thy greater
brethren. Thy shrine is honored as of old!

After a last lingering glance at the distant ocean and the swelling
woods that now in Merry June are making their grandest show, Monica
jumps down from her bank again and goes slowly--singing as she
goes--towards the river that runs at the end of Moyne.

Down by its banks Moyne actually touches the hated lands of Cooles, a
slight boundary fence being all that divides one place from the other.
The river rushes eagerly past both, on its way to the sea, murmuring
merrily on its happy voyage, as though mocking at human weals and woes
and petty quarrels.

Through the waving meadows, over the little brook, past the stile,
Monica makes her way, plucking here and there the scarlet poppies, and
the blue cornflowers and daisies, "those pearled Arcturi of the earth,
the constellated flower that never sets."

The sun is tinting all things with its yellow haze, and is burning to
brightest gold the reddish tinge in the girl's hair as she moves with
dallying steps through the green fields. She is dressed in a white gown,
decked with ribbons of sombre tint, and wears upon her head a huge poky
bonnet, from which her face peeps out, half earnest, half coquettish,
wholly pure.

Her hands are bare and shapely, but a little brown; some old-fashioned
rings glisten on them. She has the tail of her gown thrown negligently
over her arm, and with her happy lips parted in song, and her eyes
serene as early dawn, she looks like that fair thing of Chaucer's, whose

"Berthe was of the womb of morning dew,
And her conception of the joyous prime."

And now the sparkling river comes in sight. Near its brink an old
boat-house may be seen fast crumbl