"Well, I shall go and judge of Killarney myself some day," he says, idly.
"Oh, yes, you must indeed," says the little enthusiast, brightening. "It is more than lovely. How I wish I could go with you!"
She looks at him as she says this, fearlessly, honestly, and without a suspicion of coquetry.
"I wish you could!" says Geoffrey from his heart.
"Well, I can't, you know," with a sigh. "But no matter: you will enjoy the scenery even more by yourself."
"I don't think I shall," says Geoffrey, in a low tone.
"Well, we have both seen the bay," says Mona, cheerfully,—"Bantry Bay I mean: so we can talk about that. Yet indeed"—seriously—"you cannot be said to have seen it properly, as it is only by moonlight its full beauty can be appreciated. Then, with its light waves sparkling beneath the gleam of the stars, and the moon throwing a path across it that seems to go on and on, until it reaches heaven, it is more satisfying than a happy dream. Do you see that hill up yonder?" pointing to an elevation about a mile distant: "there I sometimes sit when the moon is full, and watch the bay below. There is a lovely view from that spot."
"I wish I could see it!" says Geoffrey, longingly.
"Well so you can," returns she, kindly. "Any night when there is a good moon come to me and I will go with you to Carrickdhuve—that is the name of the hill—and show you the bay."
She looks at him quite calmly, as one might who sees nothing in the fact of accompanying a young man to the top of a high mountain after nightfall. And in truth she does see nothing in it. If he wishes to see the bay she loves so well, of course he must see it; and who so competent to point out to him all its beauties as herself?