It was a year later. Monica and Sidney were sitting in the garden. Sidney was working, whilst Monica was reading the newspaper; and it was Randolph Neville whom they were discussing. There was a short paragraph in the paper, mentioning the good work he had done on the frontier, and the appointment that was offered to him of an important Government post in Central India. Monica had had a terrible year of suffering and struggling against her fate. She had been through many treatments, but with very little result as regards improvement to her health. She could walk a little with the help of a stick, and use her hands; but she would never be a strong active woman again; and she had at last grasped this fact and accepted it. Sidney had never left her. Monica had told her that if she did, she would not endure her life a day longer; and though her rash words were unconvincing, Sidney had not the heart to leave her alone. The months had been testing times for all, for Monica's courage deserted her, and she was a captious irritable impatient invalid. Aunt Dannie worried her so much, and realised that she did, that she finally left her and went to make a home with an old friend of hers in London. Sidney took the household into her care, a good working bailiff was found for the farm, and the routine of life went on pretty much as before. Chuckles came home for his holidays, and gladdened the place with his presence. But his aunt never spoke to him about being a farmer now. She had decided to sell the place as soon as she got a good offer for it and retire into a town, where Chuckles could attend a good day school. Her hair was grey, and her face lined like an old woman; for this upheaval in her life had met and conquered all her fighting strength, and her agonising and futile efforts to get the better of it had left scars behind which would not ever be effaced. Sidney's sweetness and patience with her, her unfailing cheerfulness, and unswerving trust in One Who is Lord of circumstances, did much to soften her lot; but though Monica had accepted her fate, she was not resigned to it. She had been very slowly, from constant intercourse with Sidney, learning a few lessons that were not of her own materialistic school; but though she was seeing through a glass darkly, she was still outside that circle of rest and assurance in which: Though "the fig tree shall not blossom, neither shall fruit be in the vines, the labour of the olive shall fail, and the fields shall yield no meat; the flock shall be cut off from the fold, and there shall be no herd in the stalls," yet the bereaved one is able to "rejoice in the Lord," and "joy in the God of his salvation." She was still her determined practical self; very quiet about her deep feelings, coldly undemonstrative to everyone but Sidney. But she was beginning to take more interest in the outside world, and to bear the visits of her friends without the resentment she had showed at first.