But it was not easy even then to say what was in her heart. Randolph was busy from morning till night over the necessary business that must ensue upon the death of a landed proprietor. Tom Pendrill, who had been much with the earl of late, remained to assist his successor; and both the men seemed to take it for granted that Monica would gladly be spared all business discussions, and devote herself to Arthur, from whom she had so long been separated. Monica, very gentle and submissive, accepted the office bestowed upon her, and quietly bided her time. Despite the loss she had just sustained, she was not unhappy. How could she be unhappy when she had her husband? when she felt that every day they were drawing nearer and nearer together? She looked wistfully into his face sometimes, and saw the old proud, tender look shining upon her, thrilling her with wonderful gladness. Some little shadow still hung over them, but it was rolling slowly away—the dawn was breaking in its golden glory—the time was drawing very near when each was to know the heart of the other wholly and entirely won. She never shrank from hearing the new Lord Trevlyn called by his title; but looked at him proudly and tenderly, feeling how well he bore the dignity, how nobly he would fulfil the duties now devolving upon him. She watched him day by day with quiet, loving solicitude. She saw his care for her in each act or plan, knew that he thought for her still, made her his first object, although she had disappointed him so grievously once. Her heart throbbed with joy to feel that this was so; the sunshine deepened round her path day by day. Just a little patience—just a little time to show him that the old distrust and insubordination were over, and he would give to her—she felt sure of it now—the love she prized above all else on earth. Monica’s face might be pale and grave in these days, yet it wore an added sweetness as each passed by, for her heart was full of strange new joy. She loved her husband—he loved her—their hearts were all but united. [Illustration] CHAPTER THE SIXTEENTH. CHANGES. “Arthur!” “Aha! my lady! you did not expect that, did you? Now look here!” Arthur, who was sitting up in an arm-chair—a thing Monica had never seen him do since that terrible fall from the cliffs years ago—now pulled himself slowly into a standing position, and by the help of a stout stick, shuffled a few paces to his couch, upon which he sank breathless, yet triumphant, though his drawn brow betrayed that the achievement was made at the cost of some physical pain. “Arthur, don’t! You will kill yourself!”