only thing that troubles me is the idea that she thinks
us too hard on Mollie. She has never said so, of course; but somehow it
is so easy to read her thoughts--she is more transparent than other
people.' And Cyril heaved a deep sigh. 'I wonder what she will think
when she sees me. I do not want her to know that I am looking out for
her. Everyone has a right to take an evening walk if he likes; and, of
course, the roads are open to all. Even without this excuse I meant to
do it; for after this evening----' And then Cyril groaned to himself as
he thought of the seven long blank weeks that stretched before him, when
a certain sweet face would be missing; and at that moment he espied the
gleam of a white dress between the hedgerows.

Now, Audrey was right in saying Booty was a spoilt dog. He was as full
of whimsies this evening as spoilt children generally are. He had
testified extreme delight when Audrey had closed the gate of Vineyard
Cottage behind her. By some curious canine train of reasoning he had
arrived at the conviction that his master was at Woodcote--had probably
arrived there during their absence; and with this pleasing notion he
pattered cheerfully after Audrey down the long grass lanes. But Audrey
walked fast, and being rather late, she walked all the faster; and
Booty, who was used to Michael's leisurely pace, began to lag behind and
to hold out signals of distress. 'Oh, Booty, Booty!' exclaimed Audrey,
regarding the little animal indulgently; 'and so I am to carry you, just
because your legs are so absurdly short that they tire easily.'
Evidently this was what Booty wished, for he sat up and waved his paws
in an irresistible way. 'Very well, I will carry you, old fellow; but
you are dreadfully spoilt, you know.'

'Indeed, you shall do nothing of the kind, Miss Ross;' and Cyril jumped
off the stile. 'I will carry him for you;' and Cyril hoisted him up on
his arm, being rewarded by an affectionate dab on his nose from Booty's
busy tongue.

Audrey had coloured slightly when she first caught sight of Cyril's tall
figure; but she suppressed her surprise.

'Is this a favourite walk of yours?' she asked carelessly, as though it
were a usual thing to meet Mr. Blake wandering about the Brail lanes.

Cyril was quite equal to the occasion. He hardly knew which was his
favourite walk; he was trying them all by turns. He had taken his mother
to Brail once, and she had been much pleased with the village. There was