er's study-table,
neither could she have recalled a single thought that passed through her
mind. A dull throbbing pain was at her heart; the cold numbness that had
crept over her as Michael had bidden her good-bye, and which kept her
dumb before him, was over her now--some strange pulse seemed beating in
her head. He was going still farther away from her. He was not coming
back. He would never come back. Something would happen to him. She would
never see his kind face again--never, never!

Perhaps this long silence had angered him--Michael, who had always been
so gentle to her, on whose face she had never seen a frown! Michael had
grown weary of endurance, and had given up all hope of winning her. Oh,
if he had only trusted her! if he would only have believed that she
would have done her very best to make him happy! How could he be so
cruel to himself and to her? How could he have the heart to punish her
so bitterly, as though she were to blame? Could she help her nature any
more than she could help this separation from her dearest friend?

And then there came over her the deadly feeling of possible loss, and a
desolation too terrible to contemplate. She had mourned very tenderly
for Cyril; but if Michael died--if any ill should befall him in those
distant lands--'Oh, I could not bear it!' was her inward cry. 'Life
without Michael would be impossible,' and as this thought flashed
through her mind her eyes suddenly fell on an empty space at the end of
her father's letter. With a sudden impulse she took up the pen and wrote
three words across the page in her clear, legible writing--'Michael,
come. Audrey.' She was almost breathless with her haste as she thrust it
into the envelope, and carried it to the boy who was waiting for the
letters. Then she went back to the drawing-room, for she dare not trust
herself to be alone another moment. What had she done? What would
Michael think of her? What must she think of herself? No wonder
Geraldine looked at her in surprise as she crossed the room and took up
her work.

'What a time you have been, Audrey!' she said, a little reproachfully.
'I have been waiting to bid you good-bye. Father is going to walk with
me to Hillside, so Percival will not mind my being so late. How cold
your face and hands are, and I am as warm as possible! You have been
running about those draughty passages, and have taken a chill. She looks
pale, doesn't she, mother?'

'Come, come,' interrupted her fat