He was alarmed, and not without cause, for the strain of the past days was showing itself now, and want of rest and sleep had worn down her strength to the lowest ebb. She was so faint and weary that all power of resistance had left her. She let her husband do what he would, submitted passively to be tended like a child, and heaved a sigh that sounded almost like one of relief as he drew her towards him, so that her weary head could rest upon his broad shoulder. There was something restful and supporting, of which she was dumbly conscious in the deep love and protecting gentleness of this strong man. She only spoke once to him, and that was as they neared their destination, and the lights of the great city began to flash upon her bewildered gaze. Then she sat up, though with an effort, and looking at her husband, said gently: “You have been very good to me, Randolph.” His heart bounded at the words, but he only asked. “Are you better, Monica?” She pressed her hand to her brow. “My head aches so,” she said, and the white strained look came back to her face. She was almost frightened by the flashing lights and the myriads of people she saw as the train steamed into the terminus; and she could only cling to Randolph’s arm in hopeless bewilderment, as he piloted her through the crowd to the carriage that was awaiting them. Randolph owned a house near to the Park, in a pleasant open situation. It had been left to him by an uncle, a great traveller, and was quite a museum of costly and interesting treasures, and fitted up in the luxurious fashion that appeals to men who have grown used to Oriental ease and splendour. The young man had often pictured Monica in such surroundings, had wondered what she would say to it all, how she would feel in a place so strange and unlike anything she had ever known. He had fancied that the open situation of the house would please her, that she might be pleased too by the quaint beauty and harmony of all she saw. He had often pictured the moment when he should lead her into her new home and bid her welcome there, and now, when the time had come, she was so worn out and ill that her heavy eyes could hardly look around her, and all he could do was to support her to her room, to be tended by his old nurse, Wilberforce, whose services he had bespoken for his wife in preference to those of a more youthful and accomplished _femme de chambre_. For some days Monica was really ill, not with any specific complaint, but prostrated by nervous exhaustion—too weary and exhausted to have a clear idea of what went on around her, only conscious that everything was very strange, that she was far away from Trevlyn, and that strangers were watching over and tending her.