was! how full of health and
enjoyment! and this poor Michael, who had acted so nobly----Audrey's
eyes were full of tears. And all the time Michael was saying to himself,
'After all, I am a coward. What if I must suffer? Life will not last for
ever.'

By and by Michael owned that even his hard lot had compensations. He
became used to his semi-invalid existence. Active work of any sort was
impossible--that is, continuous work. He had tried it when his friends
had found an easy post for him, and had been obliged to give it up. He
still suffered severely from neuralgic headaches that left him worn and
exhausted. His maimed leg often troubled him; he could not walk far, and
riding was impossible.

'You must make up your mind to be an idle man--at least, for the
present, Captain Burnett,' one of his doctors had said to him, and
Michael had languidly acquiesced. To be a soldier had been his one
ambition, and he cared for little else. He had enough to keep him in
moderate comfort as a bachelor, and he had faint expectations from an
uncle who lived in Calcutta; but when questioned on this point, Michael
owned he was not sanguine.

'My Uncle Selkirk is by no means an old man,' he would say. 'Any
insurance office would consider his the better life of the two. Besides,
he might marry--he is not sixty yet; even old men make fools of
themselves by taking young wives. It is ill waiting for dead men's shoes
at the best of times. In this case it would be rank stupidity.'

'Then you will never be able to marry, Michael;' for it was to Mrs. Ross
that this last speech was addressed.

'My dear cousin, do you think any girl would look at a sickly,
ill-tempered fellow like me?' was the somewhat bitter reply; and Mrs.
Ross's kind heart was troubled at the tone.

'You should not call yourself names, my dear. You are not ill-tempered.
No one minds a little crossness now and then. Even John can say a sharp
word when he is put out. I think you are wrong, Michael. You are rather
morbid on this point. They say pity is akin to love.'

'But I object to be pitied,' he returned somewhat haughtily; 'and what
is more, I will commend myself to no woman's toleration. I will not be
dominated by any weaker vessel. If I should ever have the happiness of
having a wife--but there will be no Mrs. Michael Burnett, Cousin
Emmeline--I should love her as well as other men love their wives, but I
should distinctly insist on her keeping her proper place. Just