be sacred
to you and me. I think I am different from most girls. I have never
wished to be married; and dear as Cyril is to me, the thought of my
wedding-day has always oppressed me. I have made him unhappy sometimes,
because he saw that I shrank from it.'

Mrs. Ross felt a quick sense of relief that almost amounted to joy. Was
Audrey in love with him, after all? She had never heard a girl talk so
strangely. What an unutterable blessing it would be to them all if she
were not utterly crushed by her misfortune, and if any future healing
would be possible; but she was careful not to express this to her
daughter.

'My experience has been very different,' she answered quietly. 'My
happiest moments were those in which your dear father spoke of our
future home. I think I was quite as averse to a long engagement as he
was.'

'I can believe it, mother dear, but our natures are not alike; but there
is one thing on which we are agreed, that an engagement is almost as
binding as marriage; that is,' correcting herself, 'as long as two
persons love each other.'

'It ought not to be binding under such circumstances, Audrey.'

'Ought it not? Ah, there we differ! With all my want of enthusiasm, my
absence of sentimentality, I shall hold fast to Cyril. I have never yet
regarded myself as his wife; I did not wish to so regard myself. But now
I shall give myself up in thought wholly to him, and I pray God that
this knowledge will give him comfort.'

Mrs. Ross was silent. She felt that she hardly understood her daughter;
it was as though she had entered on higher ground, where the wrappings
of some sacred mist enveloped her. This was not the language of earthly
passion--this sublime womanly abnegation. It was not even the tender
language of a Ruth, widowed in her affections, and cleaving with
bounteous love and faith to the mother of her young Jewish husband,
'Whither thou goest I will go;' and yet the inward cry of her heart
seemed to be like that of honest Tom O'Brien: 'The Lord do so unto me,
and more also, if ought but death part me and thee.'

The one thought wholly possessed her that she might give him comfort.

'My poor, dear child, if I could only make you feel differently!'

Then Audrey laid her hand gently on her mother's lips. It was an old
habit of hers when she was a child, and too much argument had proved
wearisome.

'Hush! do not let us talk any more. I am so tired, so tired, mother, and
I know you are, too.'