'May I write and tell him?' pleaded Mollie. 'Oh, dear Miss Ross, do let me!' But Audrey was not inclined to give permission; she explained to Mollie that she meant to write herself to Captain Burnett, and that she thought Cyril would send Kester a note. 'Better leave it to him,' she suggested; 'you can write to him afterwards;' and as usual Mollie was docile. They went upstairs after this, Mollie picking up the kitten on the way. Cyril sprang to the door as he heard their footsteps. 'Have we been long?' Audrey asked, turning to him with a smile. Cyril hardly knew what he answered. For a moment a sense of giddiness came over him, as though he were suddenly dazzled. 'Could it be really true?' he asked himself more than once. Audrey did not seem to guess his feelings: she was perfectly tranquil and at her ease; she had laid aside her hat and jacket to please Mrs. Blake, and as she sat there sipping her tea and talking softly to them all, she looked so fair and girlish in her lover's sight, that the infatuated young man could not remove his eyes from her. And yet Audrey was only in the old dark-red cashmere that was Geraldine's pet aversion; but her brown hair had golden gleams in it, and the gray eyes were very bright and soft, and perhaps with that changing colour Audrey did look pretty; for youth and love are great beautifiers even of homely features. Audrey was sorry when Cyril reminded her that it was time to go. She was loath to leave that little drawing-room, so bright with lamplight and firelight. She went home and dressed for dinner in her white gown, feeling as though she were in some placid dream. The rest of the evening passed very tranquilly. Dr. Ross asked for some music; he was not in the mood for conversation, so Audrey sang to them all her favourite songs, while Cyril stood beside her and turned over the leaves. Now and then they could exchange a word or two. And just at the last she must needs sing 'Widow Miller,' and as usual Dr. Ross softly beat time and crooned an accompaniment: 'The sang o' the lark finds the widow asteer, The birr o' her wheel starts the night's dreamy ear, The tears o'er the tow-tap will whiles fa' like rain, Yet there's naebody hears Widow Miller complain.' 'What a sad song, my darling! I should like to hear something more cheerful,' whispered Cyril, as she finished. But she did not seem to hear him; she rose from her seat and crossed the room to the corner where Dr. Ross was sitting. 'That is your favourite song, daddy,' she said, leaning over him. And as he smiled and nodded, she sat down on the low chair beside him and looked thoughtfully into the fire. She roused herself presently to bid Cyril good-bye, and to linger a moment with him at the door in the starlight. 'I shall not see you until luncheon to-morrow, unless you pass the window,' he said, with the egotism common to lovers. 'You will think of me until then, will you not, dear?'