And then all at once he saw Monica standing before him, standing with one hand closely locked in that of her father, looking gravely at him in the shadowy twilight, with an inscrutable wistful sweetness in her fathomless eyes. “Randolph,” said Lord Trevlyn, “here is your promised wife. I give her to you with my blessing. May you both be as happy as you have made me to-day by this mutual act. Be very good to her, guard her and shield her, and love her tenderly. She is used to love and care from her father; let me feel that in her husband’s keeping she will gain and not lose by the change in her future life. Monica, my child, love your husband truly and faithfully. He is worthy of you, and you are worthy of him.” Lord Trevlyn placed the hand he held within Randolph’s grasp, and silently withdrew. For a moment neither moved nor spoke. The young man held the hand of his promised wife between both of his, and stood quite still, looking down with strange intensity of feeling into the half-averted face. “Monica,” he said at last, “can this be true?” She lifted her eyes to his for a moment, and then dropped them before his burning glance. “Monica,” he said again, “can it be true that you love me?” “I will be your wife if you will have me,” she said, in a very clear, low tone. “I will love you—if I can. I will try, indeed. I think I can—some day.” He was too passionately in love himself at that moment to be chilled by this response. It was more than he had ever looked for, that sweet surrender of herself. Protestations of love would sound strangely from Monica’s lips. He hardly even wished to hear them. She must feel some tenderness towards him. She had given herself to him to love and cherish; surely his great love could accomplish the rest. He drew her gently towards him. She did not resist; she let herself be encircled by his protecting arm. “I will try to make you very happy,” he said, with a sort of manly simplicity that meant more than the most ardent protestations could have done. “May I kiss you, Monica?” She lifted her down-bent face a little, and he pressed a kiss upon her brow. She made no attempt to return the caress, but he did not expect it. It was enough that she permitted him to worship her. “You have made me very happy, Monica,” he said presently, whilst the shadows deepened round them. “Will you not let me hear you say that you are happy too?” She looked at him at last. He could not read the meaning of that gaze. “I want to make you happy, my darling,” said Randolph, very softly. Again that strange, earnest gaze. “Make my father and Arthur happy,” she said, sweetly and steadily, “and I shall be happy too.”