e; but even your love, precious as it was, could
not have consoled me for the unnatural loneliness that was my lot. The
very knowledge that you were mine and that I could never claim you
seemed to add a deep bitterness to my grief. Do not let us speak of that
dreary time, my darling; it is gone now, and it is come to this: that I
thank God that I lie here with only a few hours to live.'

'Oh, Cyril! for your mother's sake, do not say this!'

'She does not hear us,' he replied; 'she seems to take no notice of
anything. Poor, dear mother! I am sorry for her!'

'And not for me!' Audrey's unselfishness could not refrain from that low
cry.

'No, not for you,' he returned tenderly. 'It is better, far better, for
you, my darling, that things are ending thus. Why should you have wasted
your sweet life for me, Audrey? I could not have borne the sacrifice. In
a little while I should have written to you, and begged you to give me
up.'

'There would have been no use in writing such a letter.'

Then he smiled happily, as though even on his dying bed it gave him
pleasure to hear that.

'Cyril, you must not talk; Michael says it hurts you.'

'No, not quite so much now; somehow the pain seems easier, and it is
such a relief to say all this. Does it make you unhappy, darling?'

'Not if it gives you comfort; you may say anything--anything--to me.'

'I only wanted to tell you that it is all right. I am glad I did it. I
have not done much for Him all my life,' dropping his voice reverently,
and she knew what he meant. '"Inasmuch"--how does that go on, Audrey?'

Then she softly repeated the words:

'"Inasmuch as ye have done it to the least of these, My brethren, ye
have done it unto _Me_."'

'Well, He did more than that for us. What was a moment's pain compared
with His? Audrey, do you think someone could say a prayer?'

Then Audrey suggested that they should send for Michael, and he came at
once.

Cyril listened with his eyes closed; but his lips moved, and Audrey's
hand was in his all the time. He seemed a little exhausted after this,
and Dr. Abercrombie gave him some restorative.

Michael did not leave the room for long after this. He came in from time
to time to see if he were wanted. But there was very little for anyone
to do. The flame of life was flickering to its close, and the practised
eye of the physician knew that in another hour or two all would be over.

'You can go in,' he said to Mollie; 'nothing makes a