"It is you who are bad to have such false, base thoughts!" his mother cried, and her eyes in their indignation, their horror, struck at him, accused him, thrust him forth. "You are cruel--and hard--and self-righteous.--You do not love me.--There is no tenderness in your heart!"-- Augustine burst into tears. "There is no room in your heart for me!--" he gasped. He turned from her and rushed out of the room. * * * * * A long time passed before she leaned forward in the chair where she had sat rigidly, rested her elbows on her knees, buried her face in her hands. Her heart ached and her mind was empty: that was all she knew. It had been too much. This torpor of sudden weakness was merciful. Now she would go to bed and sleep. It took her a long time to go upstairs; her head whirled, and if she had not clung to the baluster she would have fallen. In the passage above she paused outside Augustine's door and listened. She heard him move inside, walking to his window, to lean out into the night, probably, as was his wont. That was well. He, too, would sleep presently. In her room she said to her maid that she did not need her. It took her but a few minutes tonight to prepare for bed. She could not even braid her uncoiled hair. She tossed it, all loosened, above her head as she fell upon the pillow. She heard, for a little while, the dull thumping of her heart. Her breath was warm in a mesh of hair beneath her cheek; she was too sleepy to put it away. She was wakened next morning by the maid. Her curtains were drawn and a dull light from a rain-blotted world was in the room. The maid brought a note to her bedside. From Mr. Augustine, she said. Amabel raised herself to hold the sheet to the light and read:-- "Dear mother," it said. "I think that I shall go and stay with Wallace for a week or so. I shall see you before I go up to Oxford. Try to forgive me for my violence last night. I am sorry to have added to your unhappiness. Your affectionate son--Augustine." Her mind was still empty. "Has Mr. Augustine gone?" she asked the maid. "Yes, ma'am; he left quite early, to catch the eight-forty train." "Ah, yes," said Amabel. She sank back on her pillow. "I will have my breakfast in bed. Tea, please, only, and toast."--Then, the long habit of self-discipline asserting itself, the necessity for keeping strength, if it were only to be spent in suffering:--"No, coffee, and an egg, too."