covered it from sight. "I have a favor to ask of Mr. Haward," she said. "I
hope that after his many kindnesses he will not refuse to do me this
greatest one. If he should grant my request, the gratitude which I must
needs already feel toward him will be increased tenfold." The words came
precisely, in an even voice.

Haward smiled. "Child, you have conned your lesson well. Leave the words
of the book, and tell me in your own language what his reverence wants."

Audrey told him, but it seemed to her that he was not listening. When she
had come to an end of the minister's grievances, she sat, with downcast
eyes, waiting for him to speak, wishing that he would not look at her so
steadily. She meant never to show him her heart,--never, never; but
beneath his gaze it was hard to keep her cheek from burning, her lip from
quivering.

At last he spoke: "Would it please you, Audrey, if I should save this man
from his just deserts?"

Audrey raised her eyes. "He and Mistress Deborah are all my friends," she
said. "The glebe house is my home."

Deep sadness spoke in voice and eye. The shaft of light, moving, had left
her in the outer shadow: she sat there with a listless grace; with a
dignity, too, that was not without pathos. There had been a forlorn child;
there had been an unfriended girl; there was now a woman, for Life to
fondle or to wreak its rage upon. The change was subtle; one more a lover
or less a lover than Haward might not have noted it. "I will petition the
Commissary to-night," he said, "the Governor to-morrow. Is your having in
friends so slight as you say, little maid?"