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?”

[18]

[18]

“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.”

[19]

[19]

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.”

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