“Randolph! Can this really be Trevlyn?”
The young countess stood in all her radiant loveliness upon the threshold of her old home, and turned her happy face towards the husband who stood beside her, watching with a smile in his eyes for the effect to be produced by his labour of love.
“Can this really be Trevlyn?”
“You seemed destined never to know your old home again when you have been banished from it, Monica,” he answered, smiling. “Well, is it as much changed as you expected?”
“It is perfect,” said Monica simply; adding, after another long look round her: “If only my father could have seen this—could have lived to witness the realisation of his dream!”
But he would not let her indulge one sad thought that should cloud the brightness of this happy home-coming. He kissed her gently in token of his sympathy, and then drew her towards the blazing fire, whose dancing flames were illuminating the great hall.
“Does it realise your dream, too, my Monica?” he asked softly.
She looked up in his face, deep feeling welling up in the glance of her soft dark eyes.
“To be with you is my dream, Randolph. That is enough for me.”