“What must I do?” said Audrey to herself.  “Pain is hard to bear.”

“That night at the ball,” continued Evelyn, “when, coming down the stair, I saw you standing beside him ... and after that, the music, and the lights, and you dancing with him, in your dark beauty, with the flowers in your hair ... and after that, you and I in my coach and his face at the window!...  Oh, I can tell you what he said!  He said:  ’Good-by, sweetheart....  The violets are for you; but the great white blossoms, and the boughs of rosy mist, and all the trees that wave in the wind are for Audrey.’”

“For me!” cried Audrey,—­“for me an hour in Bruton church next morning!”

A silence followed her words.  Evelyn, sitting in the great chair, rested her cheek upon her hand and gazed steadfastly at her guest of a day.  The sunshine had stolen from the room, but dwelt upon and caressed the world without the window.  Faint, tinkling notes of a harpsichord floated up from the parlor below, followed by young Madam Byrd’s voice singing to the perturbed Colonel:—­

    “’O Love! they wrong thee much,
      That say thy sweet is bitter,
      When thy rich fruit is such
      As nothing can be sweeter. 
      Fair house of joy and bliss’”—­

The song came to an end, but after a pause the harpsichord sounded again, and the singer’s voice rang out:—­

    “’Under the greenwood tree,
      Who loves to lie with me’”—­

Audrey gave an involuntary cry; then, with her lip between her teeth, strove for courage, failed, and with another strangled cry sank upon her knees before a chair and buried her face in its cushions.

When a little time had passed, Evelyn arose and went to her.  “Fate has played with us both,” she said, in a voice that strove for calmness.  “If there was great bitterness in my heart toward you then, I hope it is not so now; if, on that night, I spoke harshly, unkindly, ungenerously, I—­I am sorry.  I thought what others thought.  I—­I cared not to touch you....  But now I am told that ’t was not you that did unworthily.  Mr. Haward has written to me; days ago I had this letter.”  It was in her hand, and she held it out to the kneeling girl.  “Yes, yes, you must read; it concerns you.”  Her voice, low and broken, was yet imperious.  Audrey raised her head, took and read the letter.  There were but a few unsteady lines, written from Marot’s ordinary at Williamsburgh.  The writer was too weak as yet for many words; few words were best, perhaps.  His was all the blame for the occurrence at the Palace, for all besides.  That which, upon his recovery, he must strive to teach his acquaintance at large he prayed Evelyn to believe at once and forever.  She whom, against her will and in the madness of his fever, he had taken to the Governor’s house was most innocent,—­guiltless of all save a childlike affection for the writer, a misplaced confidence, born of old days, and now shattered by his own hand.  Before that night she had never guessed his passion, never known the use that had been made of her name.  This upon the honor of a gentleman.  For the rest, as soon as his strength was regained, he purposed traveling to Westover.  There, if Mistress Evelyn Byrd would receive him for an hour, he might in some measure explain, excuse.  For much, he knew, there was no excuse,—­only pardon to be asked.