'Dear Audrey,' he said--for he understood her meaning well, and there was no need for her to speak more plainly--'it was not for me to go to him after such a parting as that. The presence of one's dearest friend would be intolerable.' 'I did not mean to-day,' she returned sadly; 'but there is to-morrow, and there is the future. And he has no friend who is worthy of the name. Michael, there is no one in the whole world who could help him as you could. This is the favour I have come to ask you.' 'It is granted, Audrey.' Then her eyes were full of tears as he said this. 'Oh, I knew you would not refuse! When have you ever refused to do a kindness for anyone? Michael, I told my poor boy to-day that if he valued my peace of mind he would consent to be guided by your advice. He is so young; he does not know the world as you do, and he is so terribly unhappy; but if you would only help him----' 'My dear,' he said very quietly, 'there is no need to distress yourself, or to say any more; we have always understood each other without words. You are giving me this charge because you are unable to fulfil it yourself. You wish me to be a good friend to poor Blake, to watch over him and interest myself in his welfare--that is, as far as one man will permit another to do so. Well, I can promise you that without a moment's hesitation. I will be as solicitous for him as though he were my brother. Will that content you?' But he could not easily forget the look of gratitude that answered him. 'God bless you, Michael! I will not try to thank you. Perhaps some day----' She stopped as though unable to say more. 'Oh,' he said lightly, and crushing down some dangerous emotion as he spoke, 'I have done nothing to deserve thanks. Even if you had not asked me this, do you think I would have gone on my own way, like the Levite in the parable, and left that poor fellow to shift for himself? No, my dear, no; I am not quite so flinty-hearted. Unless Blake will have none of my help--unless he absolutely repulse me--I will try as far as lies in my power to put him on his feet again.' 'He will not repulse you; I have his word for that. Ah! there is the dinner-bell, and I have not said all that I wanted. The day seems as though it would never end, and yet there is time for nothing.' 'You will not come downstairs, Audrey? Let me ask your mother to excuse you. See! you can stay in this room; I can clear the table and put things ship-shape for you.' Then she looked at him with the same air of innocent surprise with which she had regarded her mother the previous night, when she had asked to remain with her. 'Why do you all treat me as though I were an invalid?' she said protestingly. 'I am not ill, Michael. What does it matter where one eats one's dinner? It is true I am not hungry, but there is father--why should I make him uncomfortable? We must think of other people always, and under all circumstances.'