“Call me not by that name,” Audrey said.  “One that is dead used it.”

“I will call you love,” he answered,—­“my love, my dear love, my true love!”

“Nor that either,” she said, and caught her breath.  “I know not why you should speak to me so.”

“What must I call you then?” he asked, with the smile still upon his lips.

“A stranger and a dreamer,” she answered.  “Go your ways, and I will go mine.”

There was silence in the room, broken by Haward.  “For us two one path,” he said; “why, Audrey, Audrey, Audrey!” Suddenly he caught her in his arms.  “My love!” he whispered—­“my love Audrey! my wife Audrey!” His kisses rained upon her face.  She lay quiet until the storm had passed; then freed herself, looked at him, and shook her head.

“You killed him,” she said, “that one whom I—­worshiped.  It was not well done of you....  There was a dream I had last summer.  I told it to—­to the one you killed.  Now part of the dream has come true....  You never were!  Oh, death had been easy pain, for it had left memory, hope!  But you never were! you never were!”

“I am!” cried Haward ardently.  “I am your lover!  I am he who says to you, Forget the past, forget and forgive, and come with me out of your dreaming.  Come, Audrey, come, come, from the dim woods into the sunshine,—­into the sunshine of the garden!  The night you went away I was there, Audrey, under the stars.  The paths were deep in leaves, the flowers dead and blackening; but the trees will be green again, and the flowers bloom!  When we are wed we will walk there, bringing the spring with us”—­

“When we are wed!” she answered.  “That will never be.”

“It will be this week,” he said, smiling.  “Dear dryad, who have no friends to make a pother, no dowry to lug with you, no gay wedding raiment to provide; who have only to curtsy farewell to the trees and put your hand in mine”—­

She drew away her hands that he had caught in his, and pressed them above her heart; then looked restlessly from window to door.  “Will you let me pass, sir?” she asked at last.  “I am tired.  I have to think what I am to do, where I am to go.”

“Where you are to go!” he exclaimed.  “Why, back to the glebe house, and I will follow, and the minister shall marry us.  Child, child! where else should you go?  What else should you do?”

“God knows!” cried the girl, with sudden and extraordinary passion.  “But not that!  Oh, he is gone,—­that other who would have understood!”

Haward let fall his outstretched hand, drew back a pace or two, and stood with knitted brows.  The room was very quiet; only Audrey breathed hurriedly, and through the open window came the sudden, lonely cry of some river bird.  The note was repeated ere Haward spoke again.

“I will try to understand,” he said slowly.  “Audrey, is it Evelyn that comes between us?”

Audrey passed her hand over her eyes and brow and pushed back her heavy hair.  “Oh, I have wronged her!” she cried.  “I have taken her portion.  If once she was cruel to me, yet to-day she kissed me, her tears fell upon my face.  That which I have robbed her of I want not....  Oh, my heart, my heart!”