Wood County reporter. [volume] (Grand Rapids [i.e. Wisconsin Rapids], Wis.) 1857-1923, 1891-06-11
MONICA.
A LOVE STORY OF MODERN DAYS.
CHAPTER VI.


her white toilet.
1t is Friday. Madam OConnor's garden
party lies before her, and, probably, other
things. Here she bushes at herself, as she
sees that pretty soul in the glass, though in
deed she has no cause to do so; but posi-
bly, the vague thought of those 'Other things"
has something to do with it, and perhaps it
is for their sake too that she places with
such care the heavy, blood-colored rose be-
meath her chin.
This is the only suspicion of color about
her. Her gown is white; her hat is white;
long white silk gloves run up her rounded
arms as though bent on joining her sleeves
far above the elbow. A white Surar sash is
tied round her dainty waist. She is looking
''as fair as the moon as lovely as a rose"
and altogether distinctly dangerous.
Perhaps she half recognizes this fact, be-
cause she smiles at her own reflection, and
vain little girl that she is-stoops forward
and kisses herself in the happy glass that
holds her even for so brief a minute: after
which she summons her maid from her
dressing-room beyond.
''Canty," she says, as the 'tunces wife's
sisters child'' enters, 81 am dressed now;
and"
"Shure, so you are, miss; and lovely ye
look, more power to ye."
MAKE my room very tidy" says Monica,
giving her her directions before starting.
''And, CAVITY, shall want my blue dress for
dinner. You can put it out"
Eyes, MISS" whereupon Monica prepares
to leave the room; but the new maid stops
her.
eff we please, Miss Monica" she says,
hesitating and applying her apron to her lips.
eyes, CAVITY"
"Pd be very thankful to We, MISS If ye
wouldn't call me that"
''Call you whatw
"Canty, miss"
"But," astonished, isn't it your name?"
mo, miss; me name is Bridget"
"But surely CAVITY is your name toO?
well, it's me fathers name, no doubt;
but fax feel just like boy when you call
me by it, an we wouldn't like me to feel like
boy, miss, would YEP" says the village
beauty, casting an anxious glance at Monica
from her dark Irish eyes, and blushing
deeply.
Certainly not" says Monica, laughing
little. Every well, Bridget: for the future
shall try to forget you ever had sur
name"
''Thank we, miss" says Bridget, with
sigh of profound relief.
Then Monica runs downstairs, where she
finds her aunts in the drawing-room, dressed
in their very best silk gowns, waiting for
the carriage to come round. There is a lit
tie delay, which wasted time the two old
ladies spend in endeavoring to drill Terence
into shape. Something of this sort is going
On as Monica enters.
"When [ introduce you to Madam O'COn-
nor or Lady Rossmoyne my dear boy, be
sure you make very low bow. Nothing
distinguishes gentleman so much from the
common herd as the manner of his salute.
Now make me bow, that may judge of
your STYLE" Thus Miss Priscilla.
Il couldn't make one to order like that"
says Terence; yet he sullkily complies, MAX
ing very short, stiff and uncompromising
nod that makes both aunts lift their hands
In dismay.
ooh, no, my dearLthat won't do at oil!
Most ungraceful, and totally devoid of the
dignity that should inspire it. Now look at
me. 1t should be something like this"
making him a reverence that might well
have created admiration in the court of
Queen Anne.
''Ah, yesl that is something like what it
should be-" chimes in Miss Penelope, pay
ing tribute to the talent of her sister.
priscilla has caught the true tone. | wish,
Terence, we could see you more like your
dear grandfather; he was man to bow"
his dear grandfather" as represented in
the elaborate gilt frame in the dining-room,
in court suit and a periwig, and with an
abominable shipper, most deyoutly thanks
his gods that he is not like unto him. He is,
indeed Feeling goaded to the last degree),
about to break into unseemly language,
when, fortunately, the arrival of the ancient
equipage that has done duty at Moyne as
state carriage for generations is announced.
The cOachman, who is considerably older
than Timothy, draws up the old horses be-
fore the door with a careful manner that
impresses the behOlder with the belief that
he thinks they would run away in minute
if he relaxed muscle on the reins; and q
small boy, who acts as footman and looks
decidedly depressed, lets down the rickety
steps.
Miss Priscilla Blake then enters the car
riage. She is followed with much ceremony
by Miss Penelope. After which Monica
who is impressed by the proceedings, and
Terence, who is consumed with secret mirth
step in and seat themselves. Then the
coachman says, Gee upp' in exactly the
tone he has employed for forty years; and,
the gloomy boy settling down beside him,
they are all presently on the fair road to
AghyOhillbeg
Gazing at the natural beauty of the wild
loneliness around them;
"Joy rises in her like summer morn"
And then she sees an old house, low, broad,
picturesque, with balconies and terraces,
and beyond the house slanting lawns, and
at one side tennis-cOurtS, where many gayly.
clad figures are moving to and fro
Then they all descend from the time
honored chariot, and cross the lawn to where
they can see their hostess standing, tall and
erect and handsome, in spite of her sixty
years.
Your niece?" says Madam O'Con.lor,
staring hard at Monica's pure little face, the
girl looking straight back at her with GER
ainamount of curi0sityi in her eyes.-''Wen,
wish you no greater fortune than your
face, my DEAR" says the old Irishwoman.
1T ought to be a rich one, I'm thinking.
You're like your mother, too; but your eyes
are honeSter than hers. You must know
knew Kitty Blake very well at one time"
Il have heard my mother speak of you,"
says Monica.
''Ay-so? Yet fear there wasn't much
love lost between u.s." Then she turns a
little aside to greet some one else, and Moni-
ca lets her eyes roam round the grounds.
Suddenly she starts, and says out loud
"Ah there is Olga!'
''You know Mrs. Bohun, then?" says the
hostess, attracted by her exclamation and
her pretty vivaciouS expression.
$50 very, very WELL" says Monica. She
has flushed warmly, and her eyes are brill
liant. Il want to speak to her; l want to go
to her, please"
''BleSS me! what a shame to waste that
lovely flush on mere womant' says Mad
am OConnor, with merry laugh. ''Here,
Fred turning to a Young man standing