Audrey

"This is the thicket between Fair View and the glebe lands," said Audrey,

who knew not what bark of tree and milk and honey had to do with the case.

"Over yonder, sir, is the road to the great house. This path ends here;

you must go back to the edge of the wood, then turn to the south"-"I have not lost my way," answered Haward, still smiling. "It is pleasant

here in the shade, after the warmth of the open. May I not sit down upon

the leaves and talk to you for a while? I came out to find you, you

know."

As he spoke, and without waiting for the permission which he asked, he

crossed the rustling leaves, and threw himself down upon the earth between

two branching roots. Her skirt brushed his knee; with a movement quick and

shy she put more distance between them, then stood and looked at him with

wide, grave eyes. "Why do you say that you came here to find me?" she

asked. "I do not know you."

Haward laughed, nursing his knee and looking about him. "Let that pass for

a moment. You have the prettiest woodland parlor, child! Tell me, do they

treat you well over there?" with a jerk of his thumb toward the glebe

house. "Madam the shrew and his reverence the bully, are they kind to you?

Though they let you go like a beggar maid,"--he glanced kindly enough at

her bare feet and torn gown,--"yet they starve you not, nor beat you, nor

deny you aught in reason?"

Audrey drew herself up. She had a proper pride, and she chose to forget

for this occasion a bruise upon her arm and the thrusting upon her of

Hugon's company. "I do not know who you are, sir, that ask me such

questions," she said sedately. "I have food and shelter

and--and--kindness. And I go barefoot only of week days"-It was a brave beginning, but of a sudden she found it hard to go on. She

felt his eyes upon her and knew that he was unconvinced, and into her own

eyes came the large tears. They did not fall, but through them she saw the

forest swim in green and gold. "I have no father or mother," she said,

"and no brother or sister. In all the world there is no one that is kin to

me."

Her voice, that was low and full and apt to fall into minor cadences,

died away, and she stood with her face raised and slightly turned from the

gentleman who lay at her feet, stretched out upon the sere beech leaves.

He did not seem inclined to speech, and for a time the little brook and

the birds and the wind in the trees sang undisturbed.