She was not unhappy; indeed, a strange new sense of calm and rest had fallen upon her since she had laid her hand in Randolph’s and promised to love him if she could. A few short weeks ago how she would have chafed against the fetters she wore! Now she hardly felt them as fetters; they neither galled nor hurt her. Indeed, after the feeling of uncertainty, of impending change that had hung over her of late, this peaceful calm was doubly grateful. It seemed at last as if she had reached the shelter of a safe haven, and pausing there, with a sense of grateful well-being, she felt as if no storm or tempest could ever reach her again. Monica’s nature was not introspective; she did not easily analyse her feelings. Had she done so now, she might have laid bare a secret deep down within her that would have surprised her not a little; but she never attempted to look into her heart, she rather avoided definite thought; she lived in a sort of vaguely sweet dream, glad and thankful for the undercurrent of happiness which had so unexpectedly crept into her life. She did not seek to know its source—it was enough that it was there. Randolph was very good to her, she did not attempt to deny that. Nothing could have been more tender and chivalrous than his manner towards her. He arrogated none of the rights which an affianced husband might fairly have claimed; he was content with what she gave him; he never tried to force her confidence or to win words or promises that did not come spontaneously to her lips. She was shy with him for some time after the engagement had been ratified, more silent and reserved than she had been before; yet there was a charm in her very silence that went home to his heart, and he felt that she was nearer to him day by day. “I will win her yet—heart and soul,” he would say sometimes, with a thrill of proud joy as he looked into the sweet eyes raised to his, and read a something in their depths that made his heart throb gladly. “Give me time, only time, and she shall be altogether mine.” She never shunned him. She let him be her companion when and where he would, and she began to look for him, and to feel more satisfied when he was at her side. He was too wise to overdo her with his society, or seem to infringe the liberty in which she had grown up; but he frequently accompanied her on her walks or rides, and he had the satisfaction of feeling that his presence was not distasteful to her; indeed, as days went by, and she grew used to the idea that had been at first so strange, he fancied that there was something of welcome in the smile that greeted his approach. She never spoke of the future when they should be man and wife, and only by a hint here and there did he broach the subject or tell of his private affairs. Both were content for the time being to live in the present—that present that seemed so calm and bright and full of promise.