ey went in search of her fur-lined cloak.

This conversation had taken place about eighteen months ago, and though
Audrey had never alluded to it of her own accord, it touched her greatly
to notice how, when he was alone with her, Mr. O'Brien would drop a few
words which showed how clearly he remembered it.

'There is no one else to whom I can speak of Mat,' he said one day;
'Prissy never cared much about him--I think she dislikes the subject; as
sure as ever I mention Mat she cries and begins to talk of Joe.'

Audrey was not at all surprised when Mr. O'Brien made that allusion as
she was stroking the tortoise-shell cat in the sunshine. She could hear
Mrs. Baxter laying the tea-things in the other parlour, where they
generally sat, and the smell of the hot cakes and fragrant new bread
reached them. The cuckoo's note was distinctly audible in the distance;
a brown bee had buried himself in the calyx of one of the lilies; and
some white butterflies were skimming over the flower-beds. The sweet
stillness of the summer afternoon seemed to lull her into a reverie; how
impossible it was to realise sin and sorrow and broken hearts and the
great hungry needs of humanity, when the sky was so blue and cloudless,
and the insects were humming in the fulness of their tiny joy! 'Will
sorrow ever come to me?' thought the girl dreamily; 'of course, I know
it must some day; but it seems so strange to think of a time when I
shall be no longer young and strong and full of joy.' And then a wave of
pity swept over her soft heart as she noticed the wrinkles in her old
friend's face. 'I wish Mrs. Baxter were more cheerful,' she said
inwardly; 'she has depressed him, and he has been missing me all these
weeks.'

Audrey tried to be very good to him as they sat together for the next
half-hour. She told him the Rutherford news, and then asked him all
manner of questions. Audrey was a hypocrite in her innocent fashion; she
could not really have been so anxious to know how the strawberries and
peas were doing in the little kitchen garden behind the cottage, and if
the speckled hen were sitting, or if Hannah, the new girl, were likely
to satisfy Mrs. Baxter. And yet all these questions were put, as though
everything depended on the answers. 'For you know, Mr. O'Brien,' she
went on very seriously, 'Ralph declares that we shall have very little
fruit this season--those tiresome winds have stripped the
apple-trees--and for some reason or other we ha