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"He isn't!" says Geoffrey, panting "I have him at last!" Whereupon he emerges from a wilderness of ferns, drawing after him and holding up triumphantly to the light the wandering bird, that looks more dead than alive, with all its feathers drooping, and its breath coming in angry cries. But Geoffrey to whom the situation has its charm, takes up the broken thread. "But you have no piano?".

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"Oh, well, that's it," says Mr. Darling, somewhat relieved. "I'm an awful duffer not to have guessed that Geoffrey's being out would keep you awake." Sir Nicholas, who has come out to meet him, gives him a hearty hand-shake, and a smile that would have been charming if it had not been funereal. Altogether, his expression in such as might suit the death-bed of a beloved friend, His countenance is of an unseemly length, and he plainly looks on Geoffrey as one who has fallen upon evil days. "Surely," thinks Mona to herself, "this strange young man is not altogether bad. He has his divine touches as well as another." It is a lovely old castle, ancient and timeworn, with turrets rising in unexpected places, and walls covered with drooping ivy, and gables dark with age..