uld not stand still in the road to finish it, but put his
beast into motion. The trader, explaining and gesticulating, walked beside
his stirrup; the voices grew fainter and fainter,--were gone. Haward
laughed to himself; then, with his eyes raised to the depth on depth of
blue, serene beyond the grating of thorn-pointed leaves, sent his spirit
to his red brick house and silent, sunny garden, with the gate in the
ivied wall, and the six steps down to the boat and the lapping water.

The shadows lengthened, and a wind of the evening entered the wood. Haward
shook off the lethargy that had kept him lying there for the better part
of an afternoon, rose to his feet, and left the green dell for the road,
all shadow now, winding back to the toy metropolis, to Marot's ordinary,
to the ball at the Palace that night.

The ball at the Palace!--he had forgotten it. Flare of lights, wail of
violins, a painted, silken crowd, laughter, whispers, magpie chattering,
wine, and the weariness of the dance, when his soul would long to be with
the night outside, with the rising wind and the shining stars. He half
determined not to go. What mattered the offense that would be taken? Did
he go he would repent, wearied and ennuye, watching Evelyn, all
rose-colored, moving with another through the minuet; tied himself perhaps
to some pert miss, or cornered in a card-room by boisterous gamesters, or,
drinking with his peers, called on to toast the lady of his dreams. Better
the dull room at Marot's ordinary, or better still to order Mirza, and
ride off at the planter's pace, through the starshine, to Fair View. On
the river bank before the store MacLean might be lying, dreaming of a
mighty wind and a fierce death. He would dismount, and sit beside that
Highland gentleman, Jacobite and strong man, and their moods would chime
as they had chimed before. Then on to the house and to the eastern window!
Not to-night, but to-morrow night, perhaps, would the darkness be pierced
by the calm pale star that marked another window. It was all a mistake,
that month at Westover,--days lost and wasted, the running of golden sands
ill to spare from Love's brief glass....

His mood had changed when, with the gathering dusk, he entered his room at
Marot's ordinary. He would go to the Palace that night; it would be the
act of a boy to fling away through the darkness, shirking a duty his
position demanded. He would go and be merry, watching Evelyn in the gown
that P