back into its sheath. "Had we been a mile in the woods," he said, "you
would have laughed no more."

Haward watched him go. The argument with the rider was a lengthy one. He
upon horseback would not stand still in the road to finish it, but put his
beast into motion. The trader, explaining and gesticulating, walked beside
his stirrup; the voices grew fainter and fainter,--were gone. Haward
laughed to himself; then, with his eyes raised to the depth on depth of
blue, serene beyond the grating of thorn-pointed leaves, sent his spirit
to his red brick house and silent, sunny garden, with the gate in the
ivied wall, and the six steps down to the boat and the lapping water.

The shadows lengthened, and a wind of the evening entered the wood. Haward
shook off the lethargy that had kept him lying there for the better part
of an afternoon, rose to his feet, and left the green dell for the road,
all shadow now, winding back to the toy metropolis, to Marot's ordinary,
to the ball at the Palace that night.

The ball at the Palace!--he had forgotten it. Flare of lights, wail of
violins, a painted, silken crowd, laughter, whispers, magpie chattering,
wine, and the weariness of the dance, when his soul would long to be with
the night outside, with the rising wind and the shining stars. He half
determined not to go. What mattered the offense that would be taken? Did
he go he would repent, wearied and ennuyé, watching Evelyn, all
rose-colored, moving with another through the minuet; tied himself perhaps
to some pert miss, or cornered in a card-room by boisterous gamesters, or,
drinking with his peers, called on to toast the lady of his dreams. Better
the dull room at Marot's ordinary, or better still to order Mirza, and
ride off at the planter's pace, through the starshine, to Fair View. On
the river bank before the store MacLean might be lying, dreaming of a