"I am afraid not," said Mona. "But I am very anxious to go straight through, if possible." "I do not know why we should not all have gone north together," he continued, turning to his wife. "Cannot we do it still? Your maid can bring your boxes." "My _dear_ Douglas! Evelyn and I need no end of things before we can start on a round of visits." He shrugged his shoulders, and threw up his eyes resignedly. "Mona cannot possibly spend a night in a hotel alone," he said. "You dear old uncle! You must remember I have not had you to take care of me all my life. But I am all right to-night. If I sleep in Edinburgh, it shall be with a friend." "What friend? Who is she?" "She is a grade or two below the rank of a duchess, but I think she will satisfy even you. Doris Colquhoun." He smiled and nodded. On the whole, he was well satisfied to have a few days at his club, even if everybody was out of town. "Well, I will at least see you safe into the train," he said. The Sahib had expected that this duty would fall to him, and it was with the least possible shade of injured dignity that he took Mona's proffered hand. "I shall often think of our pleasant walks," she said, looking up with the frank, bright smile that made her face beautiful. But he tried in vain to find a suitable answer, and merely bowed over her hand in silence. "Now remember, my dear girl," said Sir Douglas, as he passed the last of a series of periodicals through the window of the railway carriage, "if you want anything whatever, write to me, or, better still, come. You do not need even to wire unless you want me to meet you at the station. Just get into the first train and walk into our quarters as if they belonged to you. We are rolling stones, but, wherever we are, you will always find a home." Mona did not answer. Her eyes were brimming over with tears. The train glided out of the station, and Sir Douglas watched it till it was out of sight. Then he swore roundly at a small newsboy who was somewhat persistent in the offer of his wares, and walked back to the hotel in an execrable temper towards the world in general, and towards his wife and daughter in particular. Mona was alone in the carriage, but she did not allow herself for one moment the luxury of dwelling on the life she had left behind. She dashed away her tears, and brought all her power of concentration to bear on the heap of magazines at her side. But it was hard work. Visions of sunlight dancing on the rippling fjord, of waterfalls plunging from crag to crag, of mountains looming in solemn stillness, of deep blue columns supporting a sea of ice,--all these lingered on the retina of her mind, as the physical image persists after the eye is shut. And with them came the faces--of which she must not allow herself to think.