“Proves what?” “Why, that he is in love with you, of course, just as he ought to be, and will marry you some day, make us all happy; and keep us all at Trevlyn. What could be more delightful and appropriate?” A wave of colour swept over Monica’s face. “You are a foolish boy, Arthur.” “I am not a foolish boy!” he answered, exultingly; “I know what I am saying. Randolph _does_ love you; I can see it more plainly every day. He loves you with all his heart, and some day soon he will ask you to be his wife. Of course you will say yes—you must like him, I am sure, as much as every one else does; and then everything will come right, and we shall all be perfectly happy. Things always do come right in the end, if we only will but believe it.” Monica sat very still, a strange, dream-like feeling stealing over her. Arthur’s playful words shed a sudden flood of light upon much that had been dark before, and for a moment she was blinded and dazzled. Randolph Trevlyn loved her! Yes, she could well believe it, little as she knew of love, thinking of the glance bent upon her not long ago, which had thrilled her then, she knew not why. Monica trembled, yet she was dimly conscious of a strange under-current of startled joy beneath the troubled waters of doubt, despondency, and perplexity. She could not understand herself, nor read her heart aright, yet it seemed as if through the lifting of the clouds, she obtained a rapid passing glimpse of a land of golden sunshine beyond, whither her face and footsteps alike were turned—as a traveller amid the mountain mists sees before him now and again the bright sunny smiling valley beneath which he will shortly reach. The land of promise was spreading itself out already before Monica’s eyes, and a dim perception in her heart was telling her that this was so. Yet the sandy desert path still lay before her for awhile, for like many others, her eyes were partially blinded, and she turned from the direct way, and wandered still for awhile in the arid waste. She lacked the faith to grasp the promise; but it was shining before her all the while, and in her heart of hearts she felt it, though she could not yet grasp the truth. [Illustration] CHAPTER THE SEVENTH. “WILT THOU HAVE THIS WOMAN?” Lord Trevlyn was not unobservant of the feelings with which Randolph regarded Monica. Quiet and self-contained as the young man was, his admiration and the pleasure he took in her society was still sufficiently obvious, and his own opinions were triumphantly endorsed by those of Lady Diana. “He is over head and ears in love with her!” exclaimed that sharp-eyed dame to her brother, about a couple of days after Monica’s rescue by Randolph, of which, however, she luckily knew nothing. Indeed, the story of that adventure had only been told by the girl to Arthur and her father, and both had had the tact and discrimination not to broach the subject to Lady Diana.