“My head aches so,” she said, and the white strained look came back to her face. She was almost frightened by the flashing lights and the myriads of people she saw as the train steamed into the terminus; and she could only cling to Randolph’s arm in hopeless bewilderment, as he piloted her through the crowd to the carriage that was awaiting them.

Randolph owned a house near to the Park, in a pleasant open situation. It had been left to him by an uncle, a great [175]traveller, and was quite a museum of costly and interesting treasures, and fitted up in the luxurious fashion that appeals to men who have grown used to Oriental ease and splendour.

[175]

The young man had often pictured Monica in such surroundings, had wondered what she would say to it all, how she would feel in a place so strange and unlike anything she had ever known. He had fancied that the open situation of the house would please her, that she might be pleased too by the quaint beauty and harmony of all she saw. He had often pictured the moment when he should lead her into her new home and bid her welcome there, and now, when the time had come, she was so worn out and ill that her heavy eyes could hardly look [176]around her, and all he could do was to support her to her room, to be tended by his old nurse, Wilberforce, whose services he had bespoken for his wife in preference to those of a more youthful and accomplished femme de chambre.

[176]

For some days Monica was really ill, not with any specific complaint, but prostrated by nervous exhaustion—too weary and exhausted to have a clear idea of what went on around her, only conscious that everything was very strange, that she was far away from Trevlyn, and that strangers were watching over and tending her.

Her husband’s care was unremitting. He was ever by her side. She seemed to turn to him instinctively amid the other strange faces, and to be more quiet and [177]tranquil when he was near. Yet she seldom spoke to him; he was not always certain that she knew him; but that half unconscious dependence was inexpressibly sweet, and Randolph felt hope growing stronger day by day. Surely she was slowly learning to love him; and indeed she was, only she knew it not as yet.

[177]

Then a day came when the feverish fancies and distressful exhaustion gave way to more cheering symptoms. Monica could leave her room, and leaning on her husband’s arm, wander slowly about the new home that looked so 

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