Audrey

Audrey sat in the sunshine upon the stone steps with her head bowed upon

her arms. The morning that was so bright was not bright for her; she

thought that life had used her but unkindly. A great tree, growing close

to the house, sent leaves of dull gold adrift, and they lay at her feet

and upon the skirt of her dress. The constable spoke to her: "Now,

mistress, here's a gentleman as stands for the King and the law. Look up!"

A white hand was laid upon the Colonel's arm. "I came to make sure that

you were not harsh with the poor creature," said Evelyn's pitying voice.

"There is so much misery. Where is she? Ah!"

To gain at last his prisoner's attention, the constable struck her lightly

across the shoulders with his cane. "Get up!" he cried impatiently. "Get

up and make your curtsy! Ecod, I wish I'd left you in Hunter's Pond!"

Audrey rose, and turned her face, not to the justice of the peace and

arbiter of the fate of witches, but to Evelyn, standing above

her,--Evelyn, slighter, paler, than she had been at Williamsburgh, but

beautiful in her colored, fragrant silks and the air that was hers of

sweet and mournful distinction. Now she cried out sharply, while "That

girl again!" swore the Colonel, beneath his breath.

Audrey did as she had been told, and made her curtsy. Then, while father

and daughter stared at her, the gentleman very red and biting his lip, the

lady marble in her loveliness, she tried to speak, to ask them to let her

go, but found no words. The face of Evelyn, at whom alone she looked,

wavered into distance, gazing at her coldly and mournfully from miles

away. She made a faint gesture of weariness and despair; then sank down at

Evelyn's feet, and lay there in a swoon.