“He is up; madame can go straight in. A joyful surprise will but do him good.”
Monica turned the handle, and entered, as quietly and calmly as if this had been the daily visit to the old room at Trevlyn. Arthur was lying with his back to the door. He was reading, and did not turn his head, fancying it was the servant entering, as he heard the rustle of a dress.
Monica came and stood behind him, laying her hand upon his head.
“Arthur!” she said softly.
Then he started as if he had been shot.
He sat up with an energy that showed a decided increase of strength, holding out his hands in eager welcome.
“Monica! Monica!” he cried, in a sort of rapturous excitement. “It is Monica herself!”
She bent over him and kissed him again and again, and would have made him lie down again; but he was too excited to obey.
“Monica! My own Monica! When did you come? What does it all mean? Oh, this is too splendid! Where’s Randolph?”