his face, and
then I knew what ailed him. And in the darkness I whispered in his ear,
"My poor boy, you love Audrey Ross!"'

Audrey put up one hand to shield her face, but she made no remark. She
must hear it all; she had brought this misery upon them, and she must
not refuse to share it.

'He owned it then. I will not tell you what he said; it must be sacred
between my boy and me. Oh, you do not know him! His nature is intense,
like mine; he takes nothing easily. When he says that it is killing him
by inches, and that we must go away, I know he is speaking the truth.
How is he to live here, seeing you every day, and knowing that there is
no love for him in your heart? How could any man drag out such a
hopeless existence?'

'Such things are done every day.' Audrey hardly knew what she was
saying. A dull pain seemed to contract her heart; he was going away.
Somehow, this thought had never occurred to her.

'Yes, but not by men of Cyril's nature. He is strong, but his very
strength seems to make him suffer more keenly. If he stayed here, people
would begin to talk; he would not always be able to hide what he felt.
He thinks he ought to go away for your sake. "I am giving her pain now,
and by and by it will be worse"--those were his very words.'

'I think it would be braver to stay on here. Will you tell him so, Mrs.
Blake?'

'No, Miss Ross, I will not tell him so; I will not consent to see him
slowly tortured. If he tells us we must go, I will not say a dissenting
word. What is my own comfort compared to his? I have had a hard life,
God knows! and now it will be harder still.'

'But you have other children to consider,' remonstrated Audrey faintly.
'If you leave here, Mollie and Kester will be sacrificed. Surely, you
have put this before him.'

'No, indeed, I have not; he has always been my first consideration. Of
course, I know how bad it will be for the poor children; but if it comes
to that--to choose between them and Cyril----' And a strange, passionate
look came into her eyes.

'Hush, hush! I do not like to hear you talk so,' replied Audrey. 'It is
wrong; no mother ought to make such a difference. You are not yourself,
or you would not say such things. It is all this trouble.'

'Perhaps you are right,' she returned drearily. 'I think it has half
crazed me to know we must go away. Oh, if you knew what my life has
been, and what a haven of rest this has seemed!' She looked round the
room, and a sort of sp