t among the stones, water to drink where
all the streams were dry,--oh, a king might be proud of that! And that is
what you have done for me.... When you sailed away, so many years ago, and
left me with the minister and his wife, they were not always kind. But I
knew that you thought them so, and I always said to myself, 'If he knew,
he would be sorry for me.' At last I said, 'He is sorry for me; there is
the sea, and he cannot come, but he knows, and is sorry.' It was
make-believe,--for you thought that I was happy, did you not?--but it
helped me very much. I was only a child, you know, and I was so very
lonely. I could not think of mother and Molly, for when I did I saw them
as--as I had seen them last. The dark scared me, until I found that I
could pretend that you were holding my hand, as you used to do when night
came in the valley. After a while I had only to put out my hand, and yours
was there waiting for it. I hope that you can understand--I want you to
know how large is my debt.... As I grew, so did the debt. When I was a
girl it was larger than when I was a child. Do you know with whom I have
lived all these years? There is the minister, who comes reeling home from
the crossroads ordinary, who swears over the dice, who teaches cunning
that he calls wisdom, laughs at man and scarce believes in God. His hand
is heavy; this is his mark." She held up her bruised wrist to the light,
then let the hand drop. When she spoke of the minister, she made a gesture
toward the shadows growing ever thicker and darker in the body of the
house. It was as though she saw him there, and was pointing him out.
"There is the minister's wife," she said, and the motion of her hand again
accused the shadows. "Oh, their roof has sheltered me; I have eaten of
their bread. But truth is truth. There is the schoolmaster with the
branded hands. He taught me, you know. There is"--she was looking with
wide eyes into the deepest of the shadows--"there is Hugon!" Her voice
died away. Haward did not move or speak, and for a minute there was
silence in the dusky playhouse. Audrey broke it with a laugh, soft, light,
and clear, that came oddly upon the mood of the hour. Presently she was
speaking again: "Do you think it strange that I should laugh? I laughed to
think I have escaped them all. Do you know that they call me a dreamer?
Once, deep in the woods, I met the witch who lives at the head of the
creek. She told me that I was a dream child, and tha