“Thank you, Tom; I am very much obliged to you; and if you cannot do much, at least you can keep your eye upon him, and let me know how long he stays here. I—I—it may be very foolish; but I don’t want Randolph to come back till he has gone.” Tom’s eyebrows went up. “Then you really are afraid?” She smiled faintly. “I believe I am.” “Well, it sounds very absurd; but I have a sort of a faith in your premonitions. Anyway, I will keep your words in mind, and do what I can; and we will try and get him off the field before you are ready to return to it. I should not think the attractions of the place will hold him long.” So Monica went off to Scotland with a lightened heart; and yet the shadow of the haunting fear did not vanish entirely even in the sunshine of her great happiness. CHAPTER THE NINETEENTH. IN SCOTLAND. “An empty sky and a world of heather.” Such was the scene that met Monica’s eye as she stepped out into the clear morning sunshine, and gazed out over the wide expanse of moorland that lay in a kind of purple glory all around her. Randolph’s shooting-box was situated in a very lonely, yet wonderfully picturesque spot. It seemed as if it had just been dropped down upon its little craggy eminence amid this rolling sea of billowy heather, and had anchored itself there without more ado. There was no attempt at park or garden, or enclosed ground of any kind. The moor itself was park and garden in one, and the heather and gorse grew right up to the wide terrace walk upon which the south windows of the little house opened. A plantation of pine and fir behind gave protection from the winter winds, and shade from the summer sun; but save for this little wood—an oasis in a blooming desert—the moor stretched away in its wild freedom on every hand, the white road alone, glimpses of which could be seen here and there, seeming to connect it with the great world beyond. Trevlyn was lonely and isolated enough, but it almost seemed to Monica, as she gazed over the sunny moorland that glorious summer morning, as if she had never been so utterly remote from the abode of man as she was to-day. There was a step behind her, and a hand was laid upon her shoulder. “Well, Monica?” She turned to him with lips that quivered as they smiled. “It is all so exquisite, Randolph—so perfect. You did not tell me half.” “You like it, my Monica?” “Like it! It seems as if you and I were just alone in the world together.” He bent his head and touched her brow with his lips. “And that contents you, Monica?” She looked up with eloquent eyes. “Need you ask that question now?” His smile expressed an unspeakable happiness; he put his arm about her saying softly: