asm crossed her face. 'It is all so sweet and
homelike, and he has loved it so; and now to begin all afresh, and to go
amongst strangers--and then the loss----' She stopped as though
something seemed to choke her.

Audrey felt as though she could hear no more. 'It is all my fault,' she
burst out; 'how you must hate me!' But Mrs. Blake shook her head with a
sad smile.

'I don't seem to have the power of hating you,' she said, so gently that
Audrey's lip quivered. 'How can I hate what my boy loves?' and then she
paused and looked at Audrey, as though the sight of her suppressed
emotion stirred some dim hope within her: 'If I thought it would help
him, I would kneel at your feet like a beggar and pray you to have
compassion upon him; but I know what such pity would be worth--do you
think Cyril would accept any woman's pity?'

'No, no,' and then Audrey rose and put out her hands in a beseeching
way. 'Will you let me go? Indeed, indeed, I can bear no more----'

'Yes, you shall go,' returned Mrs. Blake in a stifled tone. 'I have not
been generous, I have spared you nothing, and yet it is not your fault.
You have not played with my boy's heart; you never tried to win his
heart. Cyril said so himself.'

'No, you have not spared me,' was Audrey's answer, and then the two
women parted without kissing each other--Audrey was too sore, too
bewildered, for any such caress. They stood holding each other's hands
for a moment, and then Mrs. Blake walked to the other end of the room
and threw herself down upon a couch. Audrey looked at her for an
instant, then she turned and went slowly down the stairs. But as she
closed the green gate after her, she told herself that she must be alone
for a little, and with a sudden impulse she turned into the courtyard
that led to the school-house and chapel. There was one spot where she
would be in perfect seclusion, and that was the school library; even if
some stray boy were to make his appearance in search of a book--a very
unlikely thing at this time in the afternoon--her presence there would
attract no notice: she had several times chosen it as a cool, quiet
retreat on a hot summer's afternoon. The sight of the big shabby room,
with its pillars and book recesses and sloping desks, gave her a
momentary sense of relief. The stillness soothed her, and the tumultuous
singing in her head and ears seemed to lull. She sat down in one of the
inner recesses and looked out on the row of ivy-covered st