The master of Fair View found it too noisy in his house to sit therein, and too warm to ride abroad.  There were left the seat built round the cherry-tree in the garden, the long, cool box walk, and the terrace with a summer-house at either end.  It was pleasant to read out of doors, pacing the box walk, or sitting beneath the cherry-tree, with the ripening fruit overhead.  If the book was long in reading, if morning by morning Haward’s finger slipped easily in between the selfsame leaves, perhaps it was the fault of poet or philosopher.  If Audrey’s was the fault, she knew it not.

How could she know it, who knew herself, that she was a poor, humble maid, whom out of pure charity and knightly tenderness for weak and sorrowful things he long ago had saved, since then had maintained, now was kind to; and knew him, that he was learned and great and good, the very perfect gentle knight who, as he rode to win the princess, yet could stoop from his saddle to raise and help the herd girl?  She had found of late that she was often wakeful of nights; when this happened, she lay and looked out of her window at the stars and wondered about the princess.  She was sure that the princess and the lady who had given her the guinea were one.

In the great house she would have worked her fingers to the bone.  Her strong young arms lifted heavy weights; her quick feet ran up and down stairs for this or that; she would have taken the waxed cloths from the negroes, and upon her knees and with willing hands have made to shine like mirrors the floors that were to be trodden by knight and princess.  But almost every morning, before she had worked an hour, Haward would call to her from the box walk or the seat beneath the cherry-tree; and “Go, child,” would say Mistress Deborah, looking up from her task of the moment.

The garden continued to be the enchanted garden.  To gather its flowers, red and white, to pace with him cool paved walks between walls of scented box, to sit beside him beneath the cherry-tree or upon the grassy terrace, looking out upon the wide, idle river,—­it was dreamy bliss, a happiness too rare to last.  There was no harm; not that she ever dreamed there could be.  The house overlooked garden and terrace; the slaves passed and repassed the open windows; Juba came and went; now and then Mistress Deborah herself would sally forth to receive instructions concerning this or that from the master of the house.  And every day, at noon, the slaves drew to all the shutters save those of the master’s room, and the minister’s wife and ward made their curtsies and went home.  The latter, like a child, counted the hours upon the clock until the next morning; but then she was not used to happiness, and the wine of it made her slightly drunken.