y must some
men lead such empty lives?' For a moment the firm, resolute mouth
twitched under the reddish-brown moustache, then Michael rang the bell
and ordered a hansom.

It was late on a September evening when Audrey drove through Rutherford.
She leaned forward in the carriage a little eagerly as they passed the
Gray Cottage--surely Mollie would be at the window! But no! the windows
were blank; no girlish face was there to greet her, and with a slight
feeling of disappointment she drew back again. But nothing could long
spoil the joy of returning home.

'Oh, mother, does it not all look lovely?' she exclaimed, later on that
evening. She had been everywhere--to the stables, the poultry-yard, the
dairy, and lastly to Mrs. Draper's room. The twilight was creeping over
the gardens of Woodcote before Audrey had finished her rambles. She had
been down to the lake, she had sat on 'Michael's bench,' she had looked
at her favourite shrubs and flowers, and Dr. Ross smiled as he heard her
gaily singing along the terraces.

'Come in, you madcap!' he said good-humouredly. 'Do you know how heavy
the dews are? There, I told you so; your dress is quite damp.'

'What does it matter?' returned Audrey, with superb disdain. '"The rains
of Marly do not wet!"--do you recollect that exquisite courtier-like
speech?--so, no doubt, Woodcote dews are quite wholesome. Is it not
delicious to be home again? And there is no more "Will you come ben?"
from honest Jean, and "Will you have a sup of porridge, Miss Ross, or a
few broth to keep out the cold?" "Home, home, there is no place like
home!"' And then they heard her singing at the top of her fresh young
voice, as she roamed through the empty rooms, some old ballad Michael
had taught her:

'Oh, there's naebody hears Widow Miller complain,
Oh, there's naebody hears Widow Miller complain;
Though the heart of this world's as hard as a stane,
Yet there's naebody hears Widow Miller complain.'

'Dear child!' observed her mother fondly. 'I do not think anyone ever
was happier than our Audrey. She is like a sunbeam in the house, John;'
and then they both paused to listen:

'Ye wealthy and wise in this fair world of ours,
When your fields wave wi' gowd, your gardens wi' flowers,
When ye bind up the sheaves, leave out a few grains
To the heart-broken widow who never complains.'

CHAPTER XX

'THE LITTLE RIFT'

'And sigh that one thing only has