“Yes. I should like to see Trevlyn restored to what it must have been a century ago. The glory has departed of late years, but you have only to look round to see what the place must have been once. I want to restore that faded glory—not to introduce glaring changes, but to make it something like what it must have been when our ancestors lived there long years ago. Would you like that, Monica? It would not go against you, would it, to see Trevlyn look so? I want it to be worthy of the mistress who will preside there. It is a wish that has haunted me ever since I entered its precincts and met you there.” Monica was glad to enter into any plan proposed by her husband. She was willing he should restore Trevlyn in any way that he wished; but she preferred that he should make his own arrangements about it, and let her only judge by the result. She could not yet enter with any sense of realisation into projects for making Trevlyn other than she had known it all her life; but she trusted Randolph’s taste and judgment, and let him plan and settle everything as he would. She was ready to leave home whenever he wished it, the more so that Conrad Fitzgerald still occupied a suite of rooms in his half dismantled house, and hung about the neighbourhood in an odd, aimless sort of fashion. How he spent his time no one seemed to know, but he must have developed roving tendencies, for Monica was constantly seeing him in unexpected places, down by the rocky shore, wandering over the trackless downs, or crouching in the heather or behind a tree, as she and her husband passed along in their daily walks or rides. He never met them face to face. He appeared to endeavour always to keep out of sight. Randolph, as a matter of fact, seldom saw him, and paid no heed, when he did, to the vindictive scowl upon the yet beautiful face. But Monica seemed haunted by this persistent watching and waiting. She was ever on the look-out for the crouching figure in some place of concealment, for the glitter of the fierce blue eyes, and the cruel sneer of the pale lips. She felt intensely nervous and timid beneath that sense of _espionage_; and she was glad when August came, and she was to leave Trevlyn and its spectre behind. Accounts from Germany were very good. Arthur wrote little pencil notes every week, informing Monica that he was getting on “like a house on fire,” and singing the praises of Tom, who had stayed so long with him, “like the good fellow he was,” and would have remained longer only it really wasn’t worth while. “I’m afraid I’ve been very unjust to Tom,” said Monica. “I want to tell him so when he comes back. May we wait till he does? I want to hear all about Arthur at first hand, as I may not go to see him yet.” So they waited for the return of the traveller.