Audrey

April had gone out in rain, and though the sun now shone brightly from a

cloudless sky, the streams were swollen and the road was heavy. The

ponderous coach and the four black horses made slow progress. The creeping

pace, the languid warmth of the afternoon, the scent of flowering trees,

the ceaseless singing of redbird, catbird, robin, and thrush, made it

drowsy in the forest. In the midst of an agreeable dissertation upon May

Day sports of more ancient times the Colonel paused to smother a yawn; and

when he had done with the clown, the piper, and the hobby-horse, he yawned

again, this time outright.

"What with Ludwell's Burgundy, piquet, and the French peace, we sat late

last night. My eyes are as heavy as the road. Have you noticed, my dear,

how bland and dreamy is the air? On such an afternoon one is content to be

in Virginia, and out of the world. It is a very land of the Lotophagi,--a

lazy clime that Ulysses touched at, my love."

The equipage slowly climbed an easy ascent, and as slowly descended to the

level again. The road was narrow, and now and then a wild cherry-tree

struck the coach with a white arm, or a grapevine swung through the window

a fragrant trailer. The woods on either hand were pale green and silver

gray, save where they were starred with dogwood, or where rose the pink

mist of the Judas-tree. At the foot of the hill the road skirted a mantled

pond, choked with broad green leaves and the half-submerged trunks of

fallen trees. Upon these logs, basking in the sunlight, lay small

tortoises by the score. A snake glided across the road in front of the

horses, and from a bit of muddy ground rose a cloud of yellow butterflies.

The Colonel yawned for the third time, looked at his watch, sighed, lifted

his finely arched brows with a whimsical smile for his own somnolence;

then, with an "I beg your pardon, my love," took out a lace handkerchief,

spread it over his face and head, and, crossing his legs, sunk back into

the capacious corner of the coach. In three minutes the placid rise and

fall of his ruffles bore witness that he slept.

The horseman, who, riding beside the lowered glass, had at intervals

conversed with the occupants of the coach, now glanced from the sleeping

gentleman to the lady, in whose dark, almond-shaped eyes lurked no sign of

drowsiness. The pond had been passed, and before them, between low banks

crowned with ferns and overshadowed by beech-trees, lay a long stretch of

shady road.

Haward drew rein, dismounted, and motioned to the coachman to check the

horses. When the coach had come to a standstill, he opened the door with

as little creaking as might be, and held out a petitionary hand. "Will you

not walk with me a little way, Evelyn?" he asked, speaking in a low voice

that he might not wake the sleeper. "It is much pleasanter out here, with

the birds and the flowers."