sisters.'

'Oh, indeed! I think you will have a pleasant time, Mr. Blake.'

'Well, I cannot say I am looking forward to it. I am afraid it will be
rather a bore than otherwise. I would much rather go on working.'

'I don't think you would find Rutherford very lively.'

'Oh, I did not mean that!' with a reproachful glance at her that Audrey
found rather embarrassing. 'You surely could not have thought I wished
to remain here now'--a dangerous emphasis on 'now.' 'Why, it would be
the abomination of desolation, a howling wilderness.'

'I thought you were fond of Rutherford.'

Audrey was not particularly brilliant in her remarks just now; she was
not good at this sort of fencing. She had a dim idea that she ought to
discourage this sort of thing; but she did so hate snubbing anyone, and,
in spite of his youth, Mr. Blake was rather formidable.

'So I do--I love Rutherford!' he returned, with such vehemence that
Audrey was startled, and Booty tried anxiously to lick him again. 'It
was a blessed day that brought us all here--I wonder how often I say
that to myself--but all the same----' he paused, seemed to recollect
himself, and went on--'it must be very dull in vacation time.'

'Oh yes, of course,' she said quickly. It was rather a tame conclusion
to his sentence; but Audrey breathed more freely. She was almost glad
they had reached Rutherford, and that in a few minutes Woodcote would be
in view.

They were both a little silent after this, and by and by Cyril put Booty
down.

'Good-bye,' observed Audrey very gently, as she extended her hand.
'Thank you so much for being so good to Booty; and please give my love
to your mother and Mollie.'

'Good-bye,' murmured Cyril; and for a moment he held her hand very
tightly. If his eyes said a little too eloquently that he knew he should
not see her again for a long time, Audrey did not see it, for her own
were downcast. That strong, warm pressure of Cyril's hand had been a
revelation, and a quick, sensitive blush rose to her face as she turned
silently away.

'That is over,' thought Cyril to himself, as he strode through the
silent street in the summer twilight; 'and now for seven long blank
weeks. Am I mad to-night? would it ever be possible? It is like the new
heaven and the new earth only to think of it!' finished the young man,
delirious with this sweet intoxication of possible and impossible
dreams.

CHAPTER XVIII

ON A SCOTCH MOOR

'Time, so compla