Audrey

"Child," demanded Haward, "why did you frighten me so?" He took her hands

from her face, and drew her from the shadow of the curtain into the

evening glow. Her hands lay passive in his; her eyes held the despair of a

runner spent and fallen, with the goal just in sight. "Would have had me

go again to the mountains for you, little maid?" Haward's voice trembled

with the delight of his ended quest.

"Call me not by that name," Audrey said. "One that is dead used it."

"I will call you love," he answered,--"my love, my dear love, my true

love!"

"Nor that either," she said, and caught her breath. "I know not why you

should speak to me so."

"What must I call you then?" he asked, with the smile still upon his lips.

"A stranger and a dreamer," she answered. "Go your ways, and I will go

mine."

There was silence in the room, broken by Haward. "For us two one path," he

said; "why, Audrey, Audrey, Audrey!" Suddenly he caught her in his arms.

"My love!" he whispered--"my love Audrey! my wife Audrey!" His kisses

rained upon her face. She lay quiet until the storm had passed; then freed

herself, looked at him, and shook her head.

"You killed him," she said, "that one whom I--worshiped. It was not well

done of you.... There was a dream I had last summer. I told it to--to the

one you killed. Now part of the dream has come true.... You never were!

Oh, death had been easy pain, for it had left memory, hope! But you never

were! you never were!"

"I am!" cried Haward ardently. "I am your lover! I am he who says to you,

Forget the past, forget and forgive, and come with me out of your

dreaming. Come, Audrey, come, come, from the dim woods into the

sunshine,--into the sunshine of the garden! The night you went away I was

there, Audrey, under the stars. The paths were deep in leaves, the flowers

dead and blackening; but the trees will be green again, and the flowers

bloom! When we are wed we will walk there, bringing the spring with us"-"When we are wed!" she answered. "That will never be."

"It will be this week," he said, smiling. "Dear dryad, who have no friends

to make a pother, no dowry to lug with you, no gay wedding raiment to

provide; who have only to curtsy farewell to the trees and put your hand

in mine"-She drew away her hands that he had caught in his, and pressed them above

her heart; then looked restlessly from window to door. "Will you let me

pass, sir?" she asked at last. "I am tired. I have to think what I am to

do, where I am to go."