or your hair. But la, sir, you know 'twill never do, never in this
world."

Half an hour later, Haward rose from his chair and bowed low as to some
highborn and puissant dame. The fever that was now running high in his
veins flushed his cheek and made his eyes exceedingly bright. When he went
up to Audrey, and in graceful mockery of her sudden coming into her
kingdom, took her hand and, bending, kissed it, the picture that they made
cried out for some painter to preserve it. Her hand dropped from his
clasp, and buried itself in rich folds of flowered damask; the quick rise
and fall of her bosom stirred soft, yellowing laces, and made to flash
like diamonds some ornaments of marcasite; her face was haunting in its
pain and bewilderment and great beauty, and in the lie which her eyes gave
to the false roses beneath those homes of sadness and longing. She had no
word to say, she was "only Audrey," and she could not understand. But she
wished to do his bidding, and so, when he cried out upon her melancholy,
and asked her if 'twere indeed a Sunday in New England instead of a
Saturday in Virginia, she smiled, and strove to put on the mind as well
as the garb of a gay lady who might justly go to the Governor's ball.

Half frightened at her own success, Mistress Stagg hovered around her,
giving this or that final touch to her costume; but it was Haward himself
who put the roses in her hair. "A little longer, and we will walk once
more in my garden at Fair View," he said. "June shall come again for us,
and we will tread the quiet paths, my sweet, and all the roses shall bloom
again for us. There, you are crowned! Hail, Queen!"

Audrey felt the touch of his lips upon her forehead, and shivered. All her
world was going round; she could not steady it, could not see aright, knew
not what was happening. The strangeness made her dizzy. She hardly heard
Mistress Stagg's last protest that it would never do,--never in the world;
hardly knew when she left the house. She was out beneath the stars, moving
toward a lit Palace whence came the sound of violins. Haward's arm was
beneath her hand; his voice was in her ear, but it was as the wind's
voice, whose speech she did not understand. Suddenly they were within the
Palace garden, with its winding, torchlit walks, and the terraces at the
side; suddenly again, they had mounted the Palace steps, and the doors
were open, and she was confronted with lights and music and shifting,
dazzling figur