e a chair and buried her face in its cushions.

When a little time had passed, Evelyn arose and went to her. "Fate has
played with us both," she said, in a voice that strove for calmness. "If
there was great bitterness in my heart toward you then, I hope it is not
so now; if, on that night, I spoke harshly, unkindly, ungenerously, I--I
am sorry. I thought what others thought. I--I cared not to touch you....
But now I am told that 't was not you that did unworthily. Mr. Haward has
written to me; days ago I had this letter." It was in her hand, and she
held it out to the kneeling girl. "Yes, yes, you must read; it concerns
you." Her voice, low and broken, was yet imperious. Audrey raised her
head, took and read the letter. There were but a few unsteady lines,
written from Marot's ordinary at Williamsburgh. The writer was too weak as
yet for many words; few words were best, perhaps. His was all the blame
for the occurrence at the Palace, for all besides. That which, upon his
recovery, he must strive to teach his acquaintance at large he prayed
Evelyn to believe at once and forever. She whom, against her will and in
the madness of his fever, he had taken to the Governor's house was most
innocent,--guiltless of all save a childlike affection for the writer, a
misplaced confidence, born of old days, and now shattered by his own hand.
Before that night she had never guessed his passion, never known the use
that had been made of her name. This upon the honor of a gentleman. For
the rest, as soon as his strength was regained, he purposed traveling to
Westover. There, if Mistress Evelyn Byrd would receive him for an hour,
he might in some measure explain, excuse. For much, he knew, there was no
excuse,--only pardon to be asked.

The letter ended abruptly, as though the writer's strength were exhausted.
Audrey read it through, then with indifference gave it back to Evelyn. "It
is true,--what he says?" whispered the latter, crumpling the paper in her
hand.

Audrey gazed up at her with wide, tearless eyes. "Yes, it is true. There
was no need for you to use those words to me in the coach, that
night,--though even then I did not understand. There is no reason why you
should fear to touch me."

Her head sank upon her arm. In the parlor below the singing came to an
end, but the harpsichord, lightly fingered, gave forth a haunting melody.
It was suited to the afternoon: to the golden light, the drifting leaves,
the murmurs of wind and