ical skill could have done much for him
in the beginning. Abercrombie is just the fellow to interest himself
thoroughly in a case like Kester's, and I have great hopes of the
result. I have written to his brother, but perhaps you would be wise to
say as little as possible to Mrs. Blake. She is far too sanguine by
nature; and it would never do to excite hopes that might never be
gratified. Mr. Blake is of a different calibre; he will look at the
thing more sensibly.'

Audrey sighed as she laid aside Michael's letter. She seemed to miss him
more every day, and yet she was quite willing that his absence should be
prolonged. Michael would have noticed her want of spirits in a moment;
she would never have been free from his affectionate surveillance. At a
distance everything was so much easier; she could write cheerfully; she
could fill the sheets with small incidents and matters of local
interest, with pleasant inquiries about himself and Kester.

Nevertheless, Michael's face grew graver over each letter. He could not
have told himself what was lacking to his entire satisfaction, only some
strange subtle chord of sympathy, as delicate as it was unerring, warned
him that all was not right with the girl.

'She is not as bright as usual,' he thought. 'Audrey's letters are
generally overflowing with fun. There is a grave, almost a forced, tone
about this last one. And she so seldom mentions the Blakes.'

Audrey had certainly avoided the Gray Cottage during the last three
weeks; even Mollie's lessons were irksome to her. Mollie's tongue was
not easily silenced. In spite of all her efforts, her cheeks often burnt
at the girl's innocent loquacity. Mollie was for ever making awkward
speeches or asking questions that Audrey found difficult to answer; she
would chatter incessantly about her mother and Cyril.

'Mamma is so dreadfully worried about Cyril!' she said once. 'She wants
him to speak to Dr. Powell; she is quite sure that he is ill. He hardly
eats anything--at least, he has no appetite--and mamma says that is so
strange in a young man. And he walks about his room half the night;
Biddy hears him. You recollect that evening he dined at Woodcote? Well,
he never came home that night until past twelve, and Biddy declares that
his bed was not slept in at all; he must just have thrown himself down
on it for an hour or two. And he had such a bad headache the next
morning.'

Audrey walked to the piano and threw it open.

'I am