t to-night? You go from me now to your room,
Audrey?"

"Yes," she answered, and thought she spoke the truth.

"I love you,--love you greatly," he continued. "I will conquer,--conquer
and atone! But now, poor tired one, I let you go. Sleep, Audrey, sleep and
dream again." He held open the door for her, and stood aside with bent
head.

She passed him; then turned, and after a moment of silence spoke to him
with a strange and sorrowful stateliness. "You think, sir," she said,
"that I have something to forgive?"

"Much," he answered,--"very much, Audrey."

"And you wish my forgiveness?"

"Ay, Audrey, your forgiveness and your love."

"The first is mine to give," she said. "If you wish it, take it. I forgive
you, sir. Good-by."

"Good-night," he answered. "Audrey, good-night."

"Good-by," she repeated, and slowly mounting the broad staircase passed
from his sight.

It was dark in the upper hall, but there was a great glimmer of sky, an
opal space to mark a window that gave upon the sloping lawn and pallid
river. The pale light seemed to beckon. Audrey went not on to her attic
room, but to the window, and in doing so passed a small half-open door. As
she went by she glanced through the aperture, and saw that there was a
narrow stairway, built for the servants' use, winding down to a door in
the western face of the house.

Once at the open window, she leaned forth and looked to the east and the
west. The hush of the evening had fallen; the light was faint; above the
last rose flush a great star palely shone. All was quiet, deserted;
nothing stirring on the leaf-carpeted slope; no sound save the distant
singing of the slaves. The river lay bare from shore to shore, save where
the Westover landing stretched raggedly into the flood. To its piles small
boats were tied, but there seemed to be no boatmen; wharf and river
appeared as barren of movement and life as did the long expanse of dusky
lawn.

"I will not sleep in this house to-night," said Audrey to herself. "If I
can reach those boats unseen, I will go alone down the river. That will be
well. I am not wanted here."

When she arrived at the foot of the narrow stair, she slipped through the
door into a world all dusk and quiet, where was none to observe her, none
to stay her. Crouching by the wall she crept to the front of the house,
stole around the stone steps where, that morning, she had sat in the
sunshine, and came to the parlor windows. Close beneath one