ril
pretended to be jealous. 'You are very fond of your cousin,' he observed
as he followed her to the window, where she was watching the clouds a
little anxiously.

Audrey heard him rather absently. She was thinking that the dampness
might bring on Michael's neuralgia, and that, if he had only named his
train, the carriage might have been sent for him--indeed, she would have
driven out herself to meet him and Kester. 'Oh yes,' she rejoined; 'I
have missed him terribly all this time. Nothing is right without
Michael----' and as Cyril looked a little surprised at this, she added
quickly: 'He is like my own brother, Cyril, so it is perfectly natural,
you see; ever since his illness he has been one of us.' And as Cyril
professed himself satisfied with this explanation, there was nothing
more said, and Audrey went up to put the finishing touches to Michael's
rooms, and to arrange the chrysanthemums and coloured leaves in the big
Indian jars. If she had only known how Michael would shudder at the
sight of these chrysanthemums! He had taken a dislike to the flowers
ever since Booty had covered his coat-sleeve with golden-brown petals.

After all, Michael came before he was expected. Audrey was sitting
chatting to her mother in the twilight, when they heard the hall door
open and close, and the next moment they saw Michael standing on the
threshold looking at them.

'My dear Michael!' exclaimed Mrs. Ross; but Audrey had already crossed
the room: both her hands were in Michael's, and he was looking at her
with his old kind smile, though he did not say a word; but Audrey did
not seem to notice his silence.

'Have you walked from the Gray Cottage? We did not hear any wheels. Why
did you not let us know your train, and I would have driven in to meet
you? Mother, I am going to ring for the lamp and tea; Michael will be
tired!' And Audrey did as she said, and then picked up Booty and
lavished all sorts of caresses on the little animal, while she listened
to the quiet explanations that Michael was giving to Mrs. Ross.

'You are looking very well, Audrey,' he said at last; 'you have not lost
your moorland colour yet.' And though he said this in his usual tone,
he thought that never in his life had he seen her look so sweet.

'I wish I could return the compliment,' was her answer; 'you are looking
thin and pale, Michael. You have been giving us such a good account of
yourself, but London never suits you.'

'I think it suits me