But Monica’s mind, no sooner relieved on his account, was thrown into fresh misery and suspense by a bad attack of illness on Arthur’s part, and the strain upon her was so great, that, coming as it did after all the mental conflict she had lately endured, her own health threatened to break down, and this caused no small anxiety in the minds of all about her. “There is only one thing to be done, and that is to take her right away out of it all,” said Tom Pendrill, with authority. “She will break down as sure as fate if she stays here. The associations of the place are quite too much for her. She will have a brain or nervous fever if she is not taken away. You have a house in London, Trevlyn? Take her there and keep her quiet, but let her have change of scene; let her see fresh faces, and get into new habits, and see the world from a fresh stand-point. It will do her all the good in the world. She may rebel at first, and think herself miserable; but look at her now. What can be worse than the way in which she is going on? Trevlyn is killing her, whether she knows it or not. Let us see what London can do for her.” No dissentient voice was raised against this suggestion. The earl, Lady Diana, Randolph, and even Arthur, were all in accord, and Monica heard her sentence with that unnatural quietude that had disturbed them all so much. She did not protest or rebel, but accepted her fate very quietly, as she had accepted the marriage that had been the preliminary step. How white she looked as she lay back in her corner of the carriage! how lonely, how frail, how desolate! Randolph’s heart ached for her, for he knew her thoughts were with her sick father and suffering brother; knew that it, not unnaturally, seemed very, very hard to be taken away at a crisis such as the present. She could not estimate the causes that made a change so imperative for her. She could not see why she was hurried away so relentlessly. It had all been very hard upon her, and upon him also, had he had thought to spare for himself; but he was too much absorbed in sorrow for her to consider his own position over-much. He was indirectly the cause of her grief, and his whole being was absorbed in the longing to comfort her. She looked so white and wan as the hours passed by, that he grew alarmed about her. He had done before all he could to make her warm and comfortable, and had then withdrawn a little, fancying his close proximity distasteful to her, but she looked so ill at last that he could keep away no longer, and came over to her, taking her hand in his. “Monica,” he said gently. The long lashes stirred a little and slowly lifted themselves. The dark eyes were dim and full of trouble. She looked at him wonderingly for a moment, almost as if she did not know him, and then she closed her eyes with a little shuddering sigh.