bright and full of promise. [150] [150] As days and weeks fled by, a colour dawned upon Monica’s cheeks and a light in her eyes; she grew more beautiful every day or so, thought those who loved her, and watched her with loving scrutiny; and Mrs. Pendrill, who was, so to speak, the girl’s good angel in this crisis of her life, would caress the golden head sometimes, and ask with gentle, motherly solicitude: “My Monica is happy, is she not?” “I think so, Aunt Elizabeth,” Monica answered once, speaking out more freely than she had done before. “Other people are happy—the dread and uncertainty about the future seems all gone. Trevlyn is not sad any longer—it is my own home again, my very own. I cannot quite express it, but something seems to have come into my life and changed everything. [151]I am happy often now—nearly always, I think.” [151] Mrs. Pendrill smiled a little. “Does your happiness result from the knowledge that you—you and Arthur: I suppose I must include him—need never leave Trevlyn, and that you have pleased your father? Tell me, Monica, is that all?” A faint colour mantled the girl’s face. “I know it sounds selfish; but I hardly think anyone knows what Trevlyn is to us, and what Arthur’s welfare is to me.” Then reading the meaning of the earnest glance bent upon her, she added quickly, “Ah, yes, Aunt Elizabeth, I know there is that too. He is very, very good to me, and I will do everything to make him happy, and to be a good wife when the time comes. [152]Indeed, I do think of him. I know what he is, and what he deserves—only—only I cannot talk about that even to you.” [152] “I do not want you to talk, my love, I only want you to feel.” And very low the answer was spoken. “I think I do feel.”
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