'Mollie!' Mat repeated the name in fond, lingering fashion as he moved to the window. 'My little girl! I wonder if she is like Olive? Cyril is; he has all her good looks, but he has something in his face that Olive never had. I almost felt shamed when he called me father; but the other one--he is not my little chap, and yet he is--but somehow when he spoke my whole heart seemed to go out to him.' And then Mat tried to light his pipe, only his hand trembled too much to do it. 'If I could only have my life back again!' he said to himself with a groan. Cyril hardly broke the silence once during the drive back. It was not until several days had passed that Michael heard how that interview with his father had affected him. Cyril said very little even then, but Michael was relieved to find that, on the whole, he had been more attracted than repelled. 'Kester likes him, and in a way I like him too,' he remarked; 'we both think he has been hardly used. My mother could have kept him straight--there is no doubt of that--but she never tried to do so. One is sorry for that sort of weakness, even if one cannot understand it,' finished Cyril, with the feeling that there was nothing more to say. Michael left them at the Cottage and drove on to Woodcote. His day's work had been somewhat arduous, and he felt fagged and weary. It was long past tea-time, he knew, but he wondered if he could ask Crauford to bring him some. Michael's long years of ill-health made him depend on this feminine panacea for all ills more than most men. That Michael hated to miss his tea was a well-known fact in the Ross household. Another time Audrey would have cared for his comforts, he thought, as he dragged himself up the stairs in a spiritless manner. Tired Nature was avenging herself in her usual fashion, and Michael's head and limbs were aching. Perhaps something else ached too. But his mood changed when he entered his room. After all, he had not been forgotten. A cheery little fire burnt and spluttered as though newly lighted, and a tiny kettle sang merrily on its trivet; the tea-tray was on the table, and, as Michael regarded these preparations with an expression of satisfaction, he heard Audrey's well-known knock at the door. 'Shall I make your tea, Michael,' she asked, 'or would you rather be alone? Gage and Percival are downstairs, and, as I was sure you would be tired, I told Crauford to bring up the kettle. Shall I stay or not?' she continued, a little surprised by his silence. 'Stay, by all means!' was his only reply, as he threw himself into his easy-chair. He would have thanked her--and she evidently expected to be thanked--but he was afraid he should say too much. She had thought of him and his comfort in her own unhappiness, though her face was still pale with her inward trouble.