As days and weeks fled by, a colour dawned upon Monica’s cheeks and a light in her eyes; she grew more beautiful every day or so, thought those who loved her, and watched her with loving scrutiny; and Mrs. Pendrill, who was, so to speak, the girl’s good angel in this crisis of her life, would caress the golden head sometimes, and ask with gentle, motherly solicitude: “My Monica is happy, is she not?” “I think so, Aunt Elizabeth,” Monica answered once, speaking out more freely than she had done before. “Other people are happy—the dread and uncertainty about the future seems all gone. Trevlyn is not sad any longer—it is my own home again, my very own. I cannot quite express it, but something seems to have come into my life and changed everything. I am happy often now—nearly always, I think.” Mrs. Pendrill smiled a little. “Does your happiness result from the knowledge that you—you and Arthur: I suppose I must include him—need never leave Trevlyn, and that you have pleased your father? Tell me, Monica, is that all?” A faint colour mantled the girl’s face. “I know it sounds selfish; but I hardly think anyone knows what Trevlyn is to us, and what Arthur’s welfare is to me.” Then reading the meaning of the earnest glance bent upon her, she added quickly, “Ah, yes, Aunt Elizabeth, I know there is _that_ too. He is very, very good to me, and I will do everything to make him happy, and to be a good wife when the time comes. Indeed, I do think of him. I know what he is, and what he deserves—only—only I cannot talk about that even to you.” “I do not want you to talk, my love, I only want you to feel.” And very low the answer was spoken. “I think I do feel.” Certainly things were going well, very well. It seemed as if the course of Randolph’s true love might run smoothly enough to the very end now. Tom Pendrill chaffed him somewhat mercilessly on the easy victory he had obtained over the somewhat difficult subject, and he felt an exultant sense of joyful triumph when he compared his position of to-day with the one he had occupied a week or two back. Monica’s gentleness and growing dependence upon him were inexpressibly sweet, the dawn of a quiet happiness in her face filled his heart with delight. The victory was not quite won yet, but he began to feel a confidence that it was not far distant. And this hope would in all probability have been realised in due course, had it not been for untoward circumstances, and from the presence of enemies in the camp, one his sworn foe, the other his champion and ally: but despite this, a born mischief-maker and mar-plot. So long as Randolph was on the spot all went well. His strong will dominated all others, and his influence upon Monica produced its own effect. Love like his could not but win its way to the heart of the woman he loved.