rame the question she
had come to ask.

'You want me to tell you about Cyril's trouble?'

Then she sat and gazed at him in speechless dread.

Dr. Ross cleared his throat and shifted his spectacles. He began to find
his task difficult.

'If I only knew how to prepare you, Audrey! But I can think of no words
that will break the force of such a shock. I will tell you one thing: a
few hours ago Cyril was as ignorant of the great trouble that has
befallen him as you are at this present moment.'

She touched him with a hand that had grown suddenly very cold.

'Wait for one minute, father; I must ask you something: Did Michael tell
this thing to Cyril this afternoon?'

'Yes, dear. By some strange chance Michael was put in possession of a
terrible secret. There was no one else to break it to the poor fellow,
and, as you and I know, Mike is not the man to shirk any unpleasant
duty.'

'I understand. You may go on now, father dear; I am prepared--I am quite
prepared. I know it was no light trouble that brought that look on
Cyril's face; and Michael, too, was very strange and unlike himself.'
And then she composed herself to listen.

Dr. Ross told the story as carefully as he could, but he made no attempt
to soften facts. A skilful surgeon cuts deep: the patient may quiver
under the relentless knife, but the present pain will prevent lasting
injury. Dr. Ross wished his daughter to see things from his point of
view. It was impossible to spare her suffering; but she was young, and
he hoped time and her own strong sense of duty would bring their own
healing. He could not judge of the effect on her. Almost at his first
words she had dropped her head upon his knees, and her face was hidden
from him; and though his hand rested on her soft hair, she made no sign
or movement.

'That is all I have to tell you, my darling. No one knows but you and I
and Michael. I have not told your mother; I thought it best to wait.'
Then she stirred a little uneasily under his caressing hand. 'My own
child, you do not need to be told how I grieve for you and Cyril; it is
a bitter disappointment to you both; but--but'--his voice dropped a
little--'you must give him up.'

There was no perceptible start; only, as he said this, Audrey raised her
face from his knee, and looked at him. She was very pale, but her eyes
were quite dry; only the firm, beautiful lips trembled a little.

'I do not understand, father. Why must I give him up?'

'Why?' D