Audrey

Her voice died away, and she looked again at the water. The storekeeper

sat down upon the bank, between the hillock and the fiery vine, and his

keen eyes watched her closely. "The river," she said at last,--I like to

watch it. There was a time when I loved the woods, but now I see that they

are ugly. Now, when I can steal away, I come to the river always. I watch

it and watch it, and think.... All that you give it is taken so surely,

and hurried away, and buried out of sight forever. A little while ago I

pulled a spray of farewell summer, and went down there where the bank

shelves and gave it to the river. It was gone in a moment for all that the

stream seems so stealthy and slow."

"The stream comes from afar," said the Highlander. "In the west, beneath

the sun, it may be a torrent flashing through the mountains."

"The mountains!" cried Audrey. "Ah, they are uglier than the woods,--black

and terrible! Once I loved them, too, but that was long ago." She put her

chin upon her hand, and again studied the river. "Long ago," she said,

beneath her breath.

There was a silence; then, "Mr. Haward is at Fair View again," announced

the storekeeper.

The girl's face twitched.

"He has been nigh to death," went on her informant. "There were days when

I looked for no morrow for him; one night when I held above his lips a

mirror, and hardly thought to see the breath-stain."

Audrey laughed. "He can fool even Death, can he not?" The laugh was light

and mocking, a tinkling, elvish sound which the Highlander frowned to

hear. A book, worn and dog-eared, lay near her on the grass. He took it up

and turned the leaves; then put it by, and glanced uneasily at the

slender, brown-clad form seated upon the fairy mound.

"That is strange reading," he said.

Audrey looked at the book listlessly. "The schoolmaster gave it to me. It

tells of things as they are, all stripped of make-believe, and shows how

men love only themselves, and how ugly and mean is the world when we look

at it aright. The schoolmaster says that to look at it aright you must

not dream; you must stay awake,"--she drew her hand across her brow and

eyes,--"you must stay awake."

"I had rather dream," said MacLean shortly. "I have no love for your

schoolmaster."

"He is a wise man," she answered. "Now that I do not like the woods I

listen to him when he comes to the glebe house. If I remember all he says,

maybe I shall grow wise, also, and the pain will stop." Once more she

dropped her chin upon her hand and fell to brooding, her eyes upon the

river. When she spoke again it was to herself: "Sometimes of nights I hear

it calling me. Last night, while I knelt by my window, it called so loud

that I put my hands over my ears; but I could not keep out the sound,--the

sound of the river that comes from the mountains, that goes to the sea.

And then I saw that there was a light in Fair View house."