Audrey

"For me!" cried Audrey,--"for me an hour in Bruton church next morning!"

A silence followed her words. Evelyn, sitting in the great chair, rested

her cheek upon her hand and gazed steadfastly at her guest of a day. The

sunshine had stolen from the room, but dwelt upon and caressed the world

without the window. Faint, tinkling notes of a harpsichord floated up from

the parlor below, followed by young Madam Byrd's voice singing to the

perturbed Colonel:-"'O Love! they wrong thee much,

That say thy sweet is bitter,

When thy rich fruit is such

As nothing can be sweeter.

Fair house of joy and bliss'"-The song came to an end, but after a pause the harpsichord sounded again,

and the singer's voice rang out:-"'Under the greenwood tree,

Who loves to lie with me'"-Audrey gave an involuntary cry; then, with her lip between her teeth,

strove for courage, failed, and with another strangled cry sank upon her

knees before a chair and buried her face in its cushions.

When a little time had passed, Evelyn arose and went to her. "Fate has

played with us both," she said, in a voice that strove for calmness. "If

there was great bitterness in my heart toward you then, I hope it is not

so now; if, on that night, I spoke harshly, unkindly, ungenerously, I--I

am sorry. I thought what others thought. I--I cared not to touch you....

But now I am told that 't was not you that did unworthily. Mr. Haward has

written to me; days ago I had this letter." It was in her hand, and she

held it out to the kneeling girl. "Yes, yes, you must read; it concerns

you." Her voice, low and broken, was yet imperious. Audrey raised her

head, took and read the letter. There were but a few unsteady lines,

written from Marot's ordinary at Williamsburgh. The writer was too weak as

yet for many words; few words were best, perhaps. His was all the blame

for the occurrence at the Palace, for all besides. That which, upon his

recovery, he must strive to teach his acquaintance at large he prayed

Evelyn to believe at once and forever. She whom, against her will and in

the madness of his fever, he had taken to the Governor's house was most

innocent,--guiltless of all save a childlike affection for the writer, a

misplaced confidence, born of old days, and now shattered by his own hand.

Before that night she had never guessed his passion, never known the use

that had been made of her name. This upon the honor of a gentleman. For

the rest, as soon as his strength was regained, he purposed traveling to

Westover. There, if Mistress Evelyn Byrd would receive him for an hour,

he might in some measure explain, excuse. For much, he knew, there was no

excuse,--only pardon to be asked.