ble--at least, to me. Mollie will write to me sometimes, and I
suppose I shall answer her letters; but she will not write often.'

'I think I should tell her to write as seldom as possible. Mollie is a
nice little girl, and we are all fond of her; but I should be inclined
to doubt her discretion.'

Then Audrey smiled faintly, and promised that Mollie's correspondence
should be enclosed within strict limits. She knew well what her father
meant. Mollie's letters would be overflowing with allusions to her
brother; her simplicity would know no reticence.

'I think you may trust me,' she said, after a moment's silence. 'Of
course I understand what you mean.'

'Then in that case we will not say any more about it,' replied her
father. Trust her!--he knew that he could absolutely rely on her. When
had she ever disappointed him? Of all girls, he had never known one so
free from guile, so utterly transparent; there could be no shadow of
doubt in his mind concerning her. And as he kissed her, and again wished
her good-night, he blessed her in his heart for being such a daughter to
him.

Audrey had carried her point. Her visit to Mrs. Blake had appeared to
her in the light of an imperative duty; but it may be doubted whether
she looked forward to it with any feeling of pleasure.

Up to the present time she had spoken as little as possible of Mrs.
Blake. She had only said a word or two to Cyril, begging him to make
peace with his mother; she had asked him to soften his heart to her.
'With all her faults, I think no mother ever loved her son so well,' she
had told him. 'It is not the highest love,' she had continued, 'since
she has stooped to deceit and wrong for your sake. But it is not for you
to judge her.' And she knew instinctively that her pleading had had
weight with him.

But though she had found words to defend her, she knew that Mrs. Blake
could never be to her the friend she had been; and the shock of this
discovery had been dreadful to her. She might still love and pity
Cyril's mother; she might even be desirous of serving her; but the charm
was broken, and, as far as Audrey's happiness was concerned, it might be
well that the distance was widened between them.

When she rose the next morning, she felt as though some difficult and
painful duty lay before her; and as she walked towards the Cottage in
the sunshine of an April afternoon, she told herself that her visit must
not be a long one.

A rush of bitter-swe