Monica heard, and partly believed—believed enough to make her restless and miserable. Never a word crossed her lips that could show her trust in Randolph shaken. She was loyal to him outwardly, but she suffered keenly, nevertheless. He was not there to give her confidence, as he could well have done, by his unwavering love and devotion, and in his absence, the influence he had won slowly waned, and the old fear and distrust crept back. It might have vanished had he returned to charm it away: but, alas! he only came to make Monica his wife in sudden, unexpected fashion, before her heart was really won. Lord Trevlyn had been taken dangerously ill. It was an attack similar to those he had suffered from once or twice before, but in a more severe form. His life was in imminent danger; nothing could save him, the doctors agreed, but the most perfect rest of body and mind; and it seemed as if only the satisfaction of calling Randolph son, of seeing him Monica’s husband, could secure to him that repose of spirit so absolutely essential to his recovery. Monica did not waver when her father looked pleadingly into her face, and asked if she were ready. Her assent was calmly and firmly spoken, and after that she left all in other hands, and did not quit her father’s presence night or day. He was better for the knowledge that the wish of his heart was about to be consummated, and she was so utterly absorbed in him as to be all but unconscious of the flight of time. She knew that days sped by as on wings. She even heard them speak of “to-morrow” without any stirring of heart. She was absorbed in care for her almost dying father; she had no thought to spare for aught else. On the evening of that day Randolph stood before her, holding her hands in his warm clasp. “Is this your wish, my Monica?” She thrilled a little beneath his ardent gaze, a momentary sense of comfort and protection came over her in his presence; but physical languour blunted her feelings; she was too weary even to feel acutely. “It is my wish,” she answered gently. He bent his head and kissed her tenderly and lingeringly, looking earnestly into the pale, sweet face that seemed not quite so responsive as it had done when he saw it last; but he could not read the look it wore. He kissed her and went away, breathing half sadly, half triumphantly, the word “To-morrow.” Lady Diana, ever indefatigable and contriving, had managed as if by magic to have all things in readiness; rich white satin and brocade, orange blossom and lace veil—all was in readiness—as if she had had weeks for her preparations. Monica started and half recoiled as she saw the bridal dress laid out for her adornment, but she was quiet and passive in the hands of her attendants as they arrayed her in her snowy robes, and well she repaid their efforts. Only Lady Diana felt any dissatisfaction.