of the town. Distance muffled the Indian drums, and changed the scream of
the pipes into a far-off wailing. Savage cries, bursts of applause and
laughter,--all came softly, blent like the hum of the bees, mellow like
the sunlight. There was no one in the summer-house. Haward walked on to
the grape arbor, and found there a black girl, who pointed to an open
door, pertaining not to the small white house, but to that portion of the
theatre which abutted upon the garden. Haward, passing a window of Mr.
Stagg's domicile, was aware of Darden sitting within, much engaged with a
great book and a tankard of sack. He made no pause for the vision, and
another moment found him within the playhouse.

The sunlight entered in at the door and at one high window, but yet the
place was dim. The gallery and the rude boxes were all in shadow; the
sunbeams from the door struck into the pit, while those from the high
window let fall a shaft of misty light upon the stage itself, set for a
hall in Utica, with five cane chairs, an ancient settle, and a Spanish
table. On the settle, in the pale gold of the falling light, sat Audrey,
her hands clasped over her knees, her head thrown back, and her eyes fixed
upon the shadowy, chill, and soundless space before her. Upon Haward's
speaking her name she sighed, and, loosing her hands, turned toward him.
He came and leaned upon the back of the settle. "You sent for me, Audrey,"
he said, and laid his hand lightly upon her hair.

She shrank from his touch. "The minister made me write the letter," she
said, in a low voice. "I did not wish to trouble you, sir."

Upon her wrist were dark marks. "Did Darden do that?" demanded Haward, as
he took his seat beside her.

Audrey looked at the bruise indifferently; then with her other hand