“My dear, you do not understand these things; I feel towards Arthur as if he were my son, but he is not of my kindred. He is my wife’s son, not mine; he is not a Trevlyn at all.” Monica’s troubled gaze rested on her father’s face. “He cannot live anywhere but at Trevlyn,” she said, slowly. “It would kill him to take him anywhere else;” and in her heart she added—a little jealous hostility rising up in her heart against the stranger and usurper who was coming—“He _ought_ to have it. He is a son and a brother here. By every law of right Trevlyn should be his.” Foolish, irrational Monica! Where Arthur was concerned her eyes were blinded, her reason was warped by her love. And the ways of the great outside world were so difficult to understand. Presently she spoke in very low, measured tones, though not without a little falter in her voice now and then. “You mean that if—if you were to die—Arthur and I should be turned out of Trevlyn.” “You would neither of you have any right to remain,” answered Lord Trevlyn, choosing his words with care. “You would find a home with your aunt; and as for Arthur, I suppose he would go to his cousins—unless, indeed, if he seemed unable to live away from the place, some arrangement with my successor could be made. Everything would depend on him, but of course it would be a difficult arrangement.” She drew a long breath, and passed her hand across her eyes. “Mr. Trevlyn is coming here, you say?” “Yes, next week. I think it is right that we should become acquainted with our kinsman, especially as so much may depend upon him in the future.” “I think so too,” answered Monica; and then she quietly left him, without uttering another word. [Illustration] CHAPTER THE SECOND. MONICA’S RIDE. The next morning dawned fair and clear, as is often the case after a storm. Monica rose early, her first thought, as usual, for Arthur. She crept on tip-toe to his room, to find him as she had left him, sleeping calmly—as he was likely now to do for hours, after the attack of the previous day; and finding herself no longer required by him, the girl was not long in making up her mind how these early hours of glimmering daylight were to be spent. Seven o’clock found her in the saddle, mounted on her glossy black thorough-bred, who, gentle under her hand, would brook no other rider, and showed his mettle in every graceful eager movement, and in the restless quivering of his shapely limbs. His coat shone like satin in the pale early sunlight; he pranced and curvetted as he felt his rider upon his back. Monica and her horse together made a picture that for beauty and grace could hardly meet its match in the length and breadth of the land.