'You will follow us in ten days, will you not?' she asked rather anxiously. 'Remember that London never suits you; you are always better at Rutherford, and it will be such a pity to lose your good looks--Scotland has done wonders for you. Percival was only saying so this morning.' 'I shall be sure to come as soon as I have settled this troublesome piece of business,' he returned cheerfully. 'Take care of yourself, my Lady Bountiful, and do not get into mischief during your Mentor's absence.' But when the hansom had driven off, Michael did an unusual thing. He walked to a small oak-framed mirror that hung between the windows, and regarded himself with earnest scrutiny. He was alone; the two boys had started off in an omnibus to the National Gallery, and Michael had promised to lunch with a friend in Lincoln's Inn. 'My good looks,' he soliloquised. 'I wonder if my health has really improved? She was right. I felt a different man in Scotland. I have not felt so well and strong since that Zulu slashed me--poor devil! I sent him to limbo. It is true the doctors were not hopeless; in time and with care, if I could only keep my nerves in order--that was what they said. Oh, if I could only believe them--if I could only feel the power for work--any sort of work--coming back to me, I would--I would----' He stopped and broke off the thread of his thoughts abruptly. 'What a fool I am! I will not let this temptation master me. If I were once to entertain such a hope, to believe it possible, I should work myself into a restless fever. Avaunt, Satanas! Sweet, subtle, most impossible of impossibilities--a sane man cannot be deluded. Good God! why must some men lead such empty lives?' For a moment the firm, resolute mouth twitched under the reddish-brown moustache, then Michael rang the bell and ordered a hansom. It was late on a September evening when Audrey drove through Rutherford. She leaned forward in the carriage a little eagerly as they passed the Gray Cottage--surely Mollie would be at the window! But no! the windows were blank; no girlish face was there to greet her, and with a slight feeling of disappointment she drew back again. But nothing could long spoil the joy of returning home. 'Oh, mother, does it not all look lovely?' she exclaimed, later on that evening. She had been everywhere--to the stables, the poultry-yard, the dairy, and lastly to Mrs. Draper's room. The twilight was creeping over the gardens of Woodcote before Audrey had finished her rambles. She had been down to the lake, she had sat on 'Michael's bench,' she had looked at her favourite shrubs and flowers, and Dr. Ross smiled as he heard her gaily singing along the terraces. 'Come in, you madcap!' he said good-humouredly. 'Do you know how heavy the dews are? There, I told you so; your dress is quite damp.'