“Two wretched days of suspense followed. Then I heard that he had left Oxford the morning after our interview by the river, and I knew that all was over between us. That is the story of my life, Monica; it does not sound much to tell, but it means a good deal to me. I have never loved anyone else—I do not think I ever shall.” Monica was silent. “Neither has he.” Beatrice’s eyes were full of a sort of wistful sadness and tender regret; but she only kissed Monica very quietly, and stole silently from the room. [Illustration] CHAPTER THE TWENTY-FOURTH. STORM. “Ah, Randolph! I am glad you are in. It is going to be such a rough night!” Monica was sitting by the fire in her own room, waiting for her husband to join her there, as he always did immediately upon coming in from his day’s sport. They had one or two more guests at Trevlyn now—men, friends of Randolph’s in days past; but nothing ever hindered him from devoting this one hour before dinner to his wife. It was to Monica the happiest hour of the day. “I am so glad to have you safe back. Are you not very wet?” “No; I was well protected from the rain; but it has been a disagreeable sort of day. The other fellows were carried off to dine at Hartland’s. We came across their party just outside the park, and he begged us all to accept his hospitality for the night, as the weather was getting so bad. Haddon and I came home to tell you, but the rest accepted the invitation. We shall be quite a small party to-night.” Monica looked up with a smile. “I think I am glad of that, Randolph.” He sat down and put his arm about her. “Tired of our guests already, Monica?” “I don’t know—I like to have your friends, and to help to make them enjoy themselves; but I don’t think there is any such happiness as having you all to myself.” He held her closer to him, and looked with a proud fond smile into her face. “You feel that too, Monica?” “Ah, yes! How could I help it?” He fancied she spoke sadly, and would know why. “I think I have been sad all day,” she answered; “I am often sad before a storm, when I hear the wind moaning round the house. It makes me think of the brave men at sea, and their wives waiting for them at home.” There was a little quiver in her voice as she spoke the last words. Randolph heard it, and held her very close to him. “It is not such a very bad night, Monica.” “No; but it makes me think. When you are away, I cannot help feeling sad, often. Ah, my husband! how can I tell you all that you have been to me these happy, happy months?” “My sweet wife!” he murmured, softly. “And other wives love their husbands,” she went on in the same dreamy way, “and they see them go away over the dark sea, never to come back any more,” and she shivered. “Let us go to the music-room, Monica,” said Randolph. “You shall play the hymn for those at sea.”