as
far as I am concerned. Neither have I once visited Wardour Street.'

'No; you have been very slow about it,' she replied, smiling; 'you were
never in a hurry to possess your good things, Michael. I have often
envied you your patience.'

And then the mare trotted round the corner.

'There is an old saying, that "all comes round to him who waits." Do you
think that is true, Audrey?'

He did not wait for her answer, as he climbed up into the driving-seat
and took the reins; then he lifted his hat to her with rather a sad
smile.

'Yes, I have waited a long time, and it will not come yet.' And then he
touched the mare a little smartly, and the next moment she was trotting
briskly towards the gate.

'Why had he looked so sad?' she wondered, as she went back to Mollie. He
had not seemed like himself all the week, and now he had gone. 'If he
only knew how much I want him, I think he would not go away so often,'
she said to herself as she sat down to correct Mollie's French exercise.

It was in the early days of June that Michael paid one of these flying
visits to Rutherford, and as he drove through the green lanes, with the
sweet summer breeze just stirring the leaves, he suddenly remembered
that Cyril had lain in his quiet grave just eight months. He hardly knew
why the thought had occurred to him, for he had been pondering a far
different subject. 'Eight months! I had no idea that it had been so
long,' he said to himself; 'time passes more quickly as one grows older.
If I live to the end of the year I shall be nine-and-thirty. No wonder I
feel a sober middle-aged man!'

These reflections were hardly exhilarating, and he was glad when
Woodcote was in sight.

'You need not drive in, Fenton,' he said to the groom; 'take the mare
round to the stables, and I will walk up to the house.'

The gardens of Woodcote looked lovelier than ever this afternoon, he
thought, as he walked slowly up the terrace: the tender green of the
foliage, the gay tints of lilacs and laburnums and pink and white horse
chestnuts, made a gorgeous background. Here a guelder rose thrust its
soft puffy balls almost in his face, while the white shimmering leaves
of the maple contrasted superbly with the dark-veined leaves of the
copper beech. Dr. Ross had always prided himself on his rare trees and
shrubs, and, indeed, no other garden in Rutherford could compete with
the grounds of Woodcote; the long lawn that stretched below the terrace
was kept