Audrey

Mistress Deborah she beheld no more; but once the Widow Constance brought

Barbara to town, and the two, being very simple women, went to the play to

see the old Audrey, and saw instead a queen, tinseled, mock-jeweled, clad

in silk, who loved and triumphed, despaired and died. The rude theatre

shook to the applause. When it was all over, the widow and Barbara went

dazed to their lodging, and lay awake through the night talking of these

marvels. In the morning they found the small white house, and Audrey came

to them in the garden. When she had kissed them, the three sat down in the

arbor; for it was a fine, sunny morning, and not cold. But the talk was

not easy; Barbara's eyes were so round, and the widow kept mincing her

words. Only when they were joined by Mistress Stagg, to whom the widow

became voluble, the two girls spoke aside.

"I have a guinea, Barbara," said Audrey. "Mr. Stagg gave it to me, and I

need it not,--I need naught in the world. Barbara, here!--'tis for a warm

dress and a Sunday hood."

"Oh, Audrey," breathed Barbara, "they say you might live at Fair

View,--that you might marry Mr. Haward and be a fine lady"-Audrey laid her hand upon the other's lips. "Hush! See, Barbara, you must

have the dress made thus, like mine."

"But if 'tis so, Audrey!" persisted poor Barbara. "Mother and I talked of

it last night. She said you would want a waiting-woman, and I thought--Oh,

Audrey!"

Audrey bit her quivering lip and dashed away the tears. "I'll want no

waiting-woman, Barbara. I'm naught but Audrey that you used to be kind to.

Let's talk of other things. Have you missed me from the woods all these

days?"

"It has been long since you were there," said Barbara dully. "Now I go

with Joan at times, though mother frowns and says she is not fit. Eh,

Audrey, if I could have a dress of red silk, with gold and bright stones,

like you wore last night! Old days I had more than you, but all's changed

now. Joan says"-The Widow Constance rising to take leave, it did not appear what Joan had

said. The visitors from the country went away, nor came again while Audrey

dwelt in Williamsburgh. The schoolmaster came, and while he waited for his

sometime pupil to slowly descend the stairs talked learnedly to Mr. Stagg

of native genius, of the mind drawn steadily through all accidents and

adversities to the end of its own discovery, and of how time and tide and

all the winds of heaven conspire to bring the fate assigned, to make the

puppet move in the stated measure. Mr. Stagg nodded, took out his

snuffbox, and asked what now was the schoolmaster's opinion of the girl's

Monimia last night,--the last act, for instance. Good Lord, how still the

house was!--and then one long sigh!