Mr. and Mrs. Stagg saw their minions depart, and then themselves left the little white house in Palace Street.  Mistress Deborah was with them, but not Audrey.  “She can’t abide the sight of an Indian,” said the minister’s wife indifferently.  “Besides, Darden will be here from the church presently, and he may want her to write for him.  She and Peggy can mind the house.”

The Capitol clock was telling five when Haward entered the garden by the Nicholson Street gate.  There had arisen a zephyr of the evening, to loosen the yellow locust leaves and send them down upon the path, to lay cool fingers upon his forehead that burned, and to whisper low at his ear.  House and garden and silent street seemed asleep in the late sunshine, safe folded from the storm of sound that raged in the field on the border 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 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.”