And Beatrice after all was married at Trevlyn, in the little cliff church that had seen the hands of Randolph and Monica joined in wedlock. She resisted a good while, feeling afraid that it would be painful to Monica—a second wedding, and that within a few months of her own widowhood. But Monica took part with Tom, and the bride elect gave way, only too delighted at heart to be with Monica to the very last. It was a very quiet wedding—as quiet as Monica’s own—even the people gathered together in the little church had hardly changed. Only one short year had passed since Monica in her snowy robes had stood before that little altar, with the marriage vow upon her lips—only a year ago, and now? Yet Monica’s face was very calm and sweet. She shed no tears, she seemed to have no sad thoughts for herself, however others might feel. One pair of grey eyes seldom wandered from her face as the simple ceremonies of the day proceeded. One heart was far more occupied with thoughts of the pale-faced widow than of the blooming bride. Haddon quitted Trevlyn almost immediately after his sister. The words of thanks he tried to speak faltered on his tongue, and would not come. Monica understood, and answered by one of her sweetest smiles. “You were Randolph’s friend; you are my friend now. You must not try to thank me. I am so very glad to think of the link that binds us together. I shall not lose sight of you whilst Beatrice is so near. You will come again some day?” “Yes, Lady Trevlyn,” he answered quietly, “I will come again;” and he raised the hand he held for one moment very reverently to his lips. As he drove away he looked back, and saw Monica still standing upon the terrace. “Yes,” he said quietly to himself, “I will come back—some day.” [Illustration] CHAPTER THE TWENTY-NINTH. “AS WE FORGIVE.” A year had passed away since that fatal night when Randolph had left his wife standing on the shore—had gone away in the darkness and had returned no more: a year had passed, with its chequered lights and shades, but the anniversary of her husband’s death found Monica, as he had left her, at Trevlyn—alone.