“You need not fear,” he answered, quietly. “Monica’s nature is not one to submit tamely to any kind of coercion, nor am I the man to attempt to constrain her feelings upon a matter so important as this.” “And if,” pursued Randolph, with quiet resolution, “Lady Monica declines the proposal made to her on my behalf, I shall request you to join with me in breaking the entail; for I can never consent to be the means of taking from her that which by every moral right is hers. I could not for a moment tolerate the idea of wresting from her the right to style herself, as she has always been styled, the Lady of Trevlyn. This is her rightful home, and I shall appeal to you, if my suit fails, to assist me in installing her there for life.” The old earl looked much moved. “This is very noble of you—most noble and generous: but we will not talk of it yet. I am not sure that I could bring myself to help in separating the old title from the old estate. You are very generous to think of making the sacrifice; whether I ought to permit you to do so is another thing. At least let us wait and see what our first negotiation brings forth. Monica ought to know——” he paused, smiled, and held out his hand. “Good-night. I will speak to my daughter upon the first opportunity. You shall have your answer to-morrow.” The next day Randolph spent at St. Maws with Tom Pendrill. He felt that whilst his fate hung in the balance it would be impossible to remain at Trevlyn. He rode across to his friend’s house quite early in the day, and twilight had fallen before he returned to the sombre precincts of the Castle. He made his way straight to the earl’s study; the old man rose quickly upon his entrance, and held out his hand. His face beamed with an inward happiness and satisfaction. “I wish you joy, Randolph,” he said, wringing the young man’s hand. “We may congratulate each other, I think. Monica is yours—take her, with her father’s blessing. It seems to me as if I had nothing left to wish for now, save to see you made my son, for such indeed you are to me now.” Randolph stood very still. He could hardly believe his own ears. He had not for a moment expected any definite answer, save a definite refusal. “Lady Monica consents to be my wife?” he questioned. “Are you sure that this is so?” “I am quite sure. I had it from her own lips.” Randolph’s breath came rather fast. “Does she love me?” “Presumably she does. Monica would never give her hand for the sake of rank or wealth.” “No, no,” he answered quickly, and took one or two turns about the darkening room. He was in a strange tumult of conflicting feeling, and did not hear or heed the low-spoken words addressed to the servant, who had just entered with fresh logs for the fire. His heart was beating wildly; he knew not what to think or hope. He asked no more questions, not knowing what to ask.