“Yes, Arthur,” she answered, softly. “I love him with all my heart.” “Just as he loves you,” murmured Arthur. “I can see it in his face, in every tone of his voice, especially when he talks of you—which is pretty nearly always—we both like it so much. I am so glad you feel just the same. I thought you did. I shall like to think about you so—how happy you will be!” The next day after Arthur had been placed in the carriage that was to take him away from Trevlyn, and Monica had said her last adieu to him, and had turned away with pale face and quivering lips, she felt her hands taken in her husband’s strong warm clasp. “Monica,” he said tenderly, “good-bye. I will take every care of him. You shall hear everything, and shall not regret, if I can help it, trusting him to me.” Monica looked up suddenly into his face, and put her arms about his neck. She did not care at that moment for the presence of Tom or of the servants. Her husband was leaving her—she had only thoughts for him. “Take care of yourself, Randolph,” she said, her voice quivering, and almost breaking. “Take care of yourself, and come back to me as quickly as you can. I shall miss you, oh! so much, till I have you safe home again. Good-bye, dear husband, good-bye!” He held her for a moment in his arms. His heart beat tumultuously; for an instant everything seemed to recede, and leave him and his wife alone in the world together; but it was no time now to indulge in raptures. He kissed her brow and lips, and gently unloosed her clasp. “Good-bye, my wife,” he said gently. “God bless and keep you always.” The next moment the carriage was rolling rapidly away along the road, Monica gazing after it, her soul in her eyes. “Ah; my darling,” said Mrs. Pendrill, coming and taking her by the hand, “it is very hard to part with him; but it was kind to Arthur to spare him, and it is only for a few days.” “I know, I know,” answered Monica passing her hand across her eyes. “I would not have kept him here. Arthur wanted him so much—I can understand so well what he felt—it would have been selfish to hold him back. But it feels so lonely and desolate without him; as if everything were changed and different. I can’t express it; but oh! I do feel it all so keenly.” Mrs. Pendrill pressed the hand she held. “You love him, then, so very much?” “Ah, yes,” she answered; “how could I help it?” “It makes me very happy to hear you say that. For I was sometimes rather afraid that you were hurried into marriage before you had learned to know your own heart, I thought.” Monica passed her hand across her brow. “Was I hurried?” she asked dreamily. “It is so hard to remember all that now. It seems as if I had always loved Randolph—as if he had always been the centre of my life.” And Mrs. Pendrill was content. She said no more, asked no more questions.