“Yes, Randolph Trevlyn, one of the Warwickshire branch. The extinction of the Trevlyns at Drayton last year, you know, made him the next in succession. I made inquiries about him, and then entered into personal communication.” Lady Diana looked keenly interested. “What have you made out?” “That he is very well spoken of everywhere as a young man of high character and excellent parts. He is wealthy—very wealthy, I believe, an only son, and enriched by a long minority. He is six or seven and twenty, and he is not married.” Lady Diana’s eyes began to sparkle. “And he is coming here?” “Yes, next week. Of course I need not tell you what is in my thoughts. I object to match-making, as a rule. I shall put no pressure upon Monica of any kind, but if those two should by chance learn to love one another, I could say my ‘Nunc dimittis’ at any time.” Lady Diana looked very thoughtful. “Monica is undoubtedly beautiful,” she said, “and she is interesting, which perhaps is better.” Her brother, however, made no reply, and as he did not appear inclined to discuss the matter farther—they were seldom in entire accord in talking of Monica—she presently rose and quitted the room, saying softly to herself as she did so, “I should love to see that proud girl with a husband’s strong hand over her.” That evening, when alone with his daughter, Lord Trevlyn introduced the topic most in his thoughts at that time. “Monica, do you never want a little variety? What should you say to a visitor at Trevlyn?” “I would try to make one comfortable. Are you expecting anyone, father?” “Yes, a kinsman of ours: Mr. Trevlyn, whose acquaintance I wish to make.” “Who is he? I never heard of him before.” “No; I have not known much about him myself till lately, when circumstances made him my heir. Monica, have you ever thought what will happen at Trevlyn in the event of my death?” A very troubled look crept into Monica’s dark, unfathomable eyes. Her face looked pained and strained. “I think you ought to know, Monica,” said the earl, gently. “Perhaps you have thought that the estates would pass to you in due course of time.” Monica pressed her hands closely together, but her voice was steady, her words were quietly spoken. “I do not know if I have ever thought about it; but I suppose I have fancied you would leave all to Arthur or to me.” “Exactly, you would naturally inherit all I have to leave; but Trevlyn is entailed in the male line, and goes with the title. At my death Mr. Randolph Trevlyn will be the next earl, and all will be his.” Monica sat very still, feeling as if she had received some sudden stunning blow; but she could not take in all in a moment the gist of such intelligence. A woman in some matters, she was a child in others. “But, father,” she said quietly, and without apparent emotion, “Arthur is surely much nearer to you than this Mr. Trevlyn, whom you have never seen?” The earl smiled half-sadly, and shook his head.