'I think the air of this place is enervating,' replied Michael, jumping up from the parapet. 'I know people do not generally consider moorland air enervating; but mine is a peculiar constitution, and needs more bracing than other men's. Shall we walk back, my dear?' But as he gave her his hand to rise, the gentle melancholy of his smile smote her with a sudden sense of sadness, for it spoke of some hidden pain that even her sympathy could not reach; and she knew that his whimsical words only cloaked some vague uneasiness. 'Come, dear, come,' he continued; 'these Scotch twilights are somewhat damp and chilly. We will burn that pine log this evening, and we will sit round it and tell stories—eh, Audrey?'
But, in spite of these cheerful words, Michael was the quietest of the group that evening, as he watched from his dusky corner, unperceived himself, the play of the firelight on one bright, earnest face. Audrey sat on the rug at her father's feet, with her head against his knee. It was a favourite position of hers.
'Now, Daddy Glass-Eyes, it is your turn,' she said, using the old baby-name. 'Michael has turned disagreeable and has gone to sleep, so we will miss him. Kester, are you thinking of your story? It must be a nice creepy one, please.'
'I think we ought all to go to bed early, John,' interrupted Mrs. Ross. 'Audrey is in one of her sociable moods; but she forgets we have a long journey before us. Kester is looking as sleepy as possible.' And as Dr. Ross always acted on his wife's quiet hints, the fireside circle soon broke up.
It had been arranged that the whole party should sleep two nights in town. Geraldine and Audrey had shopping to do, and both Dr. Ross and his son-in-law had business appointments to detain them. Audrey and her mother had tea with Michael one evening, and then they bade him and Kester good-bye.
'You will tell Mollie all about me, will you not, Miss Ross?' Kester exclaimed excitedly. 'Tell her I am going to St. Paul's, and the National Gallery, and the British Museum. Fred Somers is going to pilot me about, as Captain Burnett has so much to do. Do you know Fred Somers, Miss Ross? He seems a nice sort of fellow.'
Oh yes, Audrey knew all about Fred Somers. He was another protégé of Michael's; indeed, the whole Somers family considered themselves indebted to Captain Burnett.
Fred's father was only a City clerk, and at one time his head had been very much below water. He was a good, weak sort of man; but he had not sufficient backbone, and when the tide sat dead against him he lost courage.
'The man will die,' said the doctor. 'He has no stamina; he simply offers no resistance to the disease that is carrying him off. You should cheer him up a bit, Mrs. Somers—crying never mended a sick man yet.' For he was the parish doctor, and a little rough in his ways.
'A man has no right to lose courage and to show the white feather when he has a wife and six children depending on him,' said Michael.