Audrey was glad of that, but there was yet a weight upon her heart. “After that dream I lay awake all night, and it came to me how wrongly I had done. Hugon is a wicked man,--an Indian. Oh, I should never have told you, that first day in the garden, that he was waiting for me outside! For now, because you took care of me and would not let him come near, he hates you. He is so wicked that he might do you a harm.” Her eyes widened, and the hand that touched his was cold and trembling. “If ever hurt came to you through me, I would drown myself in the river yonder. And then I thought--lying awake last night--that perhaps I had been troublesome to you, those days at Fair View, and that was why you had not come to see the minister, as you had said you would.” The dark eyes were pitifully eager; the hand that went to her heart trembled more and more. “It is not as it was in the mountains,” she said. “I am older now, and safe, and--and happy. And you have many things to do and to think of, and many friends--gentlemen and beautiful ladies--to go to see. I thought--last night--that when I saw you I would ask your pardon for not remembering that the mountains were years ago; for troubling you with my matters, sir; for making too free, forgetting my place”--Her voice sank; the shamed red was in her cheeks, and her eyes, that she had bravely kept upon his face, fell to the purple and gold blooms in her lap. Haward rose from the grass, and, with his back to the gray hole of the willow, looked first at the veil of leaf and stem through which dimly showed house, orchard, and blue sky, then down upon the girl at his feet. Her head was bent and she sat very still, one listless, upturned hand upon the grass beside her, the other lying as quietly among her flowers.