l this is so
terrible; his pride will suffer, and his heart, and his mother will be
no comfort to him. If he only had you!' And then she did break down a
little, but she soon recovered herself. 'I have been sitting here trying
to find out why this has been allowed to happen to him. I think there is
no one so good, except Michael. It is very dreadful!' And here she
shuddered slightly. 'How will he live out his daily life and not grow
bitter over it? My poor, poor Cyril!'

'My darling, are you not thinking of yourself at all?'

'Of myself? No, mother. Why should I think of myself? I have you and
father and Michael--you will all comfort me; but who will comfort him?'

'His Heavenly Father, Audrey.'

'Oh yes, you are right; but do young men think as we do? Cyril is good,
but he never speaks of these things. He is not like Michael.'

'It was trouble that taught Michael.'

'Yes, I know; but I would fain have spared my poor Cyril such a bitter
lesson. Mother, I want you to tell them all not to talk to me--I mean
Michael and Gage and Percival; I could not bear it. As I told father, I
shall never give him up. If he goes away, I must bid him good-bye; but
if he will write to me I shall answer his letters.'

'I do not think your father would approve of that, Audrey. My child,
consider--would it not be better, and more for Cyril's good, that you
should give him up entirely?'

'No, mother; I do not think so. I believe in my heart that the knowledge
that I am still true to him will be his only earthly comfort. No one
knows him as I do; his nature is very intense. He is almost as intense
as Michael, and that is saying a great deal.'

'My love, will you let your mother say one thing to you?--that I think
you are making a grievous mistake, and that your father thinks so too.'

'I know it, mother, and it pains me to differ from you both in this; but
you will never convince me. I plighted my troth to Cyril because I loved
him dearly, and nothing will change that love. It is quite true,' she
continued dreamily, as though she were following out some train of
habitual thought, 'that I have often asked myself if I loved him in the
same way in which other girls cared for their lovers--as Gage did for
Percival, for example--if mine were not too quiet and matter-of-fact an
attachment; and I have never been able to answer myself
satisfactorily.'

'Have you not, Audrey?'

'No, mother dear; but of course this is in confidence: it must