Averil had a painful interview with her step-mother the next morning; but she was very patient with the poor, weak woman, who bemoaned herself so bitterly.

Mrs. Willmot never brooded silently over her wrongs; her feeble nature needed the relief of words; her outbursts of lamentation, of indignation, of maternal solicitude, were all poured into Averil's ears.

"To think my girl, my own beautiful Maud, should be set aside by that red-haired woman! Handsome! She can not hold a candle to Maud. Averil, you do not know how a mother's heart bleeds for her child. My only consolation is that she does not suffer as I feared she would. She is angry with him—her pride is hurt, and no wonder! He has treated her shamefully. But I am thankful to see that her affections are not deeply engaged. If she had cared for him, would she have looked at him with a smile, as she did last night?"

Averil let this assertion pass. Mrs. Willmot was not a person of much penetration; she loved her children, but they could easily hoodwink her. Averil herself held a different opinion, and her conviction only deepened as time went on.

Maud bore herself much as usual. She still fulfilled her numerous engagements, and seemed as much engrossed by her daily occupations as ever, though she was perhaps a trifle more haughty, more exacting in her demands on Georgina and Lottie.

But Averil noticed how heavy her eyes looked when she came down in the morning, how often they were encircled with black rings. She ate little, but any remark on her loss of appetite seemed to irritate her. She was paler, too, and as time went on there were sharpened lines in her face; the lovely curves seemed to lose their roundness; a sort of haggardness replaced the youthful freshness. Averil tried once or twice to break down the girl's reserve, but her gentle hints availed nothing. Maud would have no sympathy, permit no condolence; and after a time Averil's thoughts were diverted into another channel.

It was the middle of September now; Georgina had gone to visit some friends in Ireland, and Mrs. Willmot and Maud were planning to spend the greater part of October and November in Devonshire. Averil's expenses had been heavy that year, and she had given up, in consequence, a much-talked-of trip to Switzerland.

"Next year, if I live, I will take Annette and Lottie," she said to Mr. Harland; "but Rodney is not leaving town just yet and I do not care to leave him. Perhaps I will take the girls later on to Brighton for a week or two; one summer in town will not hurt me;" and though Mr. Harland grumbled at this resolution, she carried her point.

No, she could not leave Rodney; she was growing daily more anxious about him. He was often moody and irritable, had fits of gloom, followed by moods of reckless gayety. He was seldom at home, and when questioned about his engagements by his mother and sisters always answered evasively—Townley had asked him to go down to Cricklewood, or Forbes or Stewart had invited him.

"Who is this Townley?" Maud had once asked. "Is he a new friend of yours, Rodney?"

"Oh, I have known him for some time," he returned, curtly; "he is a chum of Forbes—he is one of the clique;" and then he sauntered out of the room.

Averil looked up from her work.

"Maud, I do not like the idea of this Mr. Townley. Frank knows him; he says he is the most worthless of the set—a thoroughly bad fellow. I am getting very anxious about Rodney."

"I think he ought to stay at home more," was Maud's reply. "I must get mamma to lecture him. He has been borrowing money off her again—he spends far too much."

"He would have been safer in Canada," returned Averil, quietly. But to this Maud made no response, only a shade crossed her face; if she regretted that false step, she did not say so; it is only a generous nature that owns its mistakes.

That night Averil had a sad shock. She had been very busy all day, and had sat up later than usual to finish some letters. As usual, Rodney was out; but a little before one she heard Roberts admit him. She was just putting away her papers, and as she closed her desk and opened the door she heard the old butler's voice raised in a serious remonstrance.

"Mr. Rodney, sir, you ought to be ashamed of yourself. You will wake your mother and the young ladies! Do, I beg of you, let me help you to bed before my mistress sees you; she is writing in her room."

"All right, old fellow! Don't you put yourself out," returned a thick voice, curiously unlike Rodney's. As they passed, Averil covered her face with a low cry. She must shut out that sight—her boy, with his fair hair disheveled, and flushed, meaningless face, as he lurched past her unsteadily on the butler's arm.

"Oh, Rodney, Rodney!" At that bitter cry the young prodigal seemed for the moment half sobered.

"Never mind, Ave," he stammered; "I am only a little poorly. Roberts—he is a good fellow—will take care of me. Good-night!"

Averil made no answer; she followed them up, with a white, stony face, and went to her room. There was no sleep for her that night. If vicarious shame could have saved Rodney, that bitter expiation might have been his. "But no man can save his brother, or make an atonement for him."

Rodney looked miserable enough the next morning: his conscience was not yet hardened. Averil took no notice of him; it was Maud who lectured him in sharp accents for his irregular habits.

"You will get into trouble one day if you go on like this," she said, in her hardest manner; and yet Maud knew nothing of the disgraceful scene. "You stop out late every night; you spend mamma's money, and you are forming idle, useless habits from always mixing with richer men. Mamma will be ruined if you go on like this."

"What a pity you hindered me from going to Canada!" sneered Rodney; and somehow that home-thrust silenced Maud, and she shortly left the room.

Averil was finishing her breakfast; she had risen late, after a sleepless night; but she only read her letters, and took no part in the conversation. Rodney glanced at her uneasily.

"I wish you would speak to me, Ave," he said at last. "If you only knew how confoundedly miserable I feel. Yes, I know I made a beast of myself last night—you need not tell me that. Roberts has been rowing me. It was those fellows—they would keep taunting me with being a temperance man."

Averil looked at him in speechless indignation; but the flash of the gray eyes was not pleasant to meet—they expressed their utter contempt, such measureless disdain.

"Oh, of course I know you will be down on me; I have done for myself now."

"Yes, and for me too. You have robbed me of a brother—do you think I can own you for one now?"

"Do you mean that you are going to kick me out?"—in a tone of dismay. Certainly, Rodney had never expected this.

"I will answer that question later," she said, sternly. "If you think such scenes are to be permitted in my house, you are strangely mistaken. These walls shall shelter no drunkard."

"You have no right to call me such names," retorted Rodney, angrily. "I am no worse than other fellows. It was Saunders and Townley. They laid a wager—"

"Stop—I will not hear you. Have you no manliness? Are you a child, to be led by other men? What do I want to know about Saunders and Townley, or any other of these worthless companions, who are ruining you? Will they answer for your sin, Rodney—for your miserable degradation of last night?"

"You won't let a fellow speak," he said, quite cowed by this burst of indignation. "I know I made a wretched ass of myself. I am ashamed of myself, I am indeed, Ave; and if you will only look over it this once, I will promise you that it shall not occur again."

"How am I to have faith in such a promise?" she returned, sadly; but her anger was lessening in spite of herself. He looked so wretched, so utterly woe-begone, and he was only a boy; she must give him another chance.

Rodney read the softening in her voice. "Only try me," he said, eagerly; "I am not all bad—I am not, indeed! I will turn over a new leaf. I will drop Staunton and all those other fellows, and look out for a berth in earnest. Don't say you'll give me up. You are my best friend, Ave"—and there were tears in the poor lad's eyes.

Averil's loving heart was not proof against this. He had been a mere boy when her father had married, and from the first she had taken to him. Rodney had never made any distinction between her and his own sisters. He had always been fond of her; he tried to take her hand now, and she did not draw it away.

"You will try me, Ave?"

"If you will give up the society of those men," she returned, in her old gentle manner. "Do, my dear boy—do, for my sake—break with them entirely, and with the club."

"I will—I will, indeed—I promise you! I must go there to-day, because I have business with Townley."

"Oh, not to-day—never again, Rodney!"

"But I must, I tell you. Ave, I have business that can not be put off. After to-day I will promise you gladly. I am getting sick of the whole thing myself."

"And you must go?" And Averil felt a sinking of her heart as she put the question.

"I give you my word, I must; but I won't be long. There shall be no staying out to-night. I suppose"—looking at her wistfully—"that you would not let me kiss you, Ave?"

Averil drew back. She had forgiven him, but she was not quite ready for that. She had often permitted his brotherly caress, but somehow the scene of last night was still before her.

"I will shake hands instead, Rodney." But directly he had left the room she repented of her hardness. "I wish I had let him kiss me," she said to herself more than once that day.

To distract herself, Averil ordered the carriage after luncheon, and took Annette and Lottie for a long drive. They had tea at a little village inn, and put up the horses for a couple of hours. Then they drove back leisurely in the cool of the evening. The girls had filled the carriage with festoons of honeysuckle and all kinds of wild-flowers.

It was nearly nine when they returned. The little expedition had revived Averil, but her careworn look came back when Roberts told her that Mr. Rodney had not dined at home.

"Miss Seymour was asking about him just now, ma'am. She said her mother was quite anxious, for he had promised to come early."

Averil turned away without answering. She was sick at heart. Surely he had not forgotten his promise already? She was too weary to sit up: she was obliged to leave him to Roberts, who would have undergone any amount of fatigue to shield his young mistress. She let Unwin help her undress, and lay down in bed with the most miserable sense—that her trust was gone. Unwin saw the tears stealing through her closed eyelids. The faithful creature was relieved when worn-out Nature had its revenge, and Averil fell into a heavy sleep that lasted until late in the morning. She woke to find Unwin standing by the bed with a breakfast-tray, and an anxious expression on her pleasant face.

"You have slept finely, ma'am," she said, as she opened the window a little wider. "It seemed a pity to disturb you, but Miss Seymour seemed to think it was late enough."

"Why, it is ten o'clock!" replied Averil in dismay. "My good Unwin, you ought not to have let me sleep so long." And then, dropping her voice a little—"When did Mr. Rodney come home?"

"He has not been home, ma'am," returned Unwin, in a distressed voice. "That is why Miss Seymour begged me to wake you. She and Mrs. Willmot seem very much worried; they say Mr. Rodney has never done such a thing in his life as to stop out all night. Mrs. Willmot is fretting herself about it. She will have it that something must have happened to him."

Averil lay quite still for a moment; then she sprung up.

"I must dress quickly," she said. "Put the tray on the table; I will drink the coffee presently. Unwin, you were wrong not to wake me. I must write to Mr. Harland at once; he will know what to do. Tell Mrs. Willmot that I will be with her soon."

Averil hardly knew how she dressed that morning. Just before she left the room she opened her Bible for a moment, and her eyes rested on the words: "Cast thy burden upon the Lord, and he will sustain thee," and the promise seemed to comfort her.

On her way down-stairs she encountered Annette and Lottie. They both looked very grave, and Annette slipped her hand through Averil's arm.

"I am so sorry, my cousin. It is not good of Mr. Rodney to frighten us all like this."

"He ought to be ashamed of himself!" added Lottie, indignantly. "Aunt is making herself quite ill."

"You must not keep me," returned Averil, as she disengaged herself gently from Annette's detaining touch.

She found her step-mother in a piteous condition. The poor lady had got it into her head that something terrible had happened to her boy.

"He has been run over, or there has been a railway accident," she said, hysterically. "Averil, why don't you send Roberts to inquire at all the hospitals? He has never done such a thing in his life as to stop out all night. He knows how frightened I should be—"

"Mamma," interrupted Maud, in a hard, resolute voice, "there is not need to conjure up such horrors. Why should there be an accident? Rodney is not a child; he is able to take care of himself. How do we know what may be detaining him?" But her words failed to convince her mother.

It was some time before Averil could find an opportunity to speak, and then she had little comfort to give.

"I think he is in some trouble, and that he is ashamed to come home," she said, in a low tone. "Some money trouble, I mean. I am going to write to Mr. Harland; he will know best what to do, and Roberts shall take my letter."

And then she withdrew to her room, leaving Maud to combat the weary, endless conjectures, the tearful questions that were so difficult to answer, mingled with incessant upbraiding; for Mrs. Willmot was selfish in her grief.

"I wish we had let him go," she moaned. "It is your own fault, Maud, for he had nearly persuaded me. If anything happens to your brother, how are we to forgive ourselves?"—and so on through the slow-dragging hours. No wonder Maud grew paler as the day wore on; her own heart felt heavy as lead, and she could find few words of comfort for her distressed mother.