Audrey told him, but it seemed to her that he was not listening. When she had come to an end of the minister’s grievances, she sat, with downcast eyes, waiting for him to speak, wishing that he would not look at her so steadily. She meant never to show him her heart,--never, never; but beneath his gaze it was hard to keep her cheek from burning, her lip from quivering. At last he spoke: “Would it please you, Audrey, if I should save this man from his just deserts?” Audrey raised her eyes. “He and Mistress Deborah are all my friends,” she said. “The glebe house is my home.” Deep sadness spoke in voice and eye. The shaft of light, moving, had left her in the outer shadow: she sat there with a listless grace; with a dignity, too, that was not without pathos. There had been a forlorn child; there had been an unfriended girl; there was now a woman, for Life to fondle or to wreak its rage upon. The change was subtle; one more a lover or less a lover than Haward might not have noted it. “I will petition the Commissary to-night,” he said, “the Governor to-morrow. Is your having in friends so slight as you say, little maid?” Oh, he could reach to the quick! She was sure that he had not meant to accuse her of ingratitude, and pitifully sure that she must have seemed guilty of it. “No, no!” she cried. “I have had a friend”--Her voice broke, and she started to her feet, her face to the door, all her being quiveringly eager to be gone. She had asked that which she was bidden to ask, had gained that which she was bidden to gain; for the rest, it was far better that she should go. Better far for him to think her dull and thankless as a stone than see--than see-- When Haward caught her by the hand, she trembled and drew a sobbing breath. “‘I have had a friend,’ Audrey?” he asked. “Why not ‘I have a friend’?” “Why not?” thought Audrey. “Of course he would think, why not? Well, then”--