olitary candle. Now the fire was low enough, but the
room seemed aflare with myrtle tapers. Audrey, coming from the dimness
without, shaded her eyes with her hand. The heavy door shut to behind her;
unseeing still she moved toward the fire, but in a moment let fall her
hand and began to wonder at the unwonted lights. Mistress Stagg was yet in
the playhouse; who then had lit these candles? She turned, and saw Haward
standing with folded arms between her and the door.

The silence was long. He was Marmaduke Haward with all his powers
gathered, calm, determined, so desperate to have done with this thing, to
at once and forever gain his own and master fate, that his stillness was
that of deepest waters, his cool equanimity that of the gamester who knows
how will fall the loaded dice. Dressed with his accustomed care, very
pale, composed and quiet, he faced her whose spirit yet lingered in a far
city, who in the dreamy exaltation of this midnight hour was ever half
Audrey of the garden, half that other woman in a dress of red silk, with
jewels in her hair, who, love's martyr, had exulted, given all, and died.

"How did you come here?" she breathed at last. "You said that you would
come never again."

"After to-night, never again," he answered. "But now, Audrey, this once
again, this once again!"

Gazing past him she made a movement toward the door. He shook his head.
"This is my hour, Audrey. You may not leave the room, nor will Mistress
Stagg enter it. I will not touch you, I will come no nearer to you. Stand
there in silence, if you choose, or cover the sight of me from your eyes,
while for my own ease, my own unhappiness, I say farewell."

"Farewell!" she echoed. "Long ago, at Westover, that was said between you
and me.... Why do you come like a ghost to keep me and peace apart?"

He did not answer, and she locked her hands across her brow that burned
beneath the heavy circlet of mock gems. "Is it kind?" she demanded, with a
sob in her voice. "Is it kind to trouble me so, to keep me here"--

"Was I ever kind?" he asked. "Since the night when I followed you, a
child, and caught you from the ground when you fell between the corn rows,
what kindness, Audrey?"

"None!" she answered, with sudden passion. "Nor kindness then! Why went
you not some other way?"

"Shall I tell you why I was there that night,--why I left my companions
and came riding back to the cabin in the valley?"

She uncovered her eyes, "I thought--I