For a few moments dead silence; then Haward spoke, slowly, weighing his words: “I am on my way, Colonel Byrd, to the country beyond the falls. I have entered upon a search, and I know not when it will be ended or when I shall return. Westover lay in my path, and there was that which needed to be said to you, sir, and to your daughter. When it has been said I will take my leave.” He paused; then, with a quickened breath, again took up his task: “Some months ago, sir, I sought and obtained your permission to make my suit to your daughter for her hand. The lady, worthy of a better mate, hath done well in saying no to my importunity. I accept her decision, withdraw my suit, wish her all happiness.” He bowed again formally; then stood with lowered eyes, his hand griping the edge of the table. “I am aware that my daughter has declined to entertain your proposals,” said the Colonel coldly, “and I approve her determination. Is this all, sir?” “It should, perhaps, be all,” answered Haward. “And yet”--He turned to Evelyn, snow-white, calm, with that faint smile upon her face. “May I speak to you?” he said, in a scarcely audible voice. She looked at him, with parting lips. “Here and now,” the Colonel answered for her. “Be brief, sir.” The master of Fair View found it hard to speak, “Evelyn”--he began, and paused, biting his lip. It was very quiet in the familiar parlor, quiet and dim, and drawing toward eventide. The lady at the harpsichord chanced to let fall her hand upon the keys. They gave forth a deep and melancholy sound that vibrated through the room. The chord was like an odor in its subtle power to bring crowding memories. To Haward, and perhaps to Evelyn, scenes long shifted, long faded, took on fresh colors, glowed anew, replaced the canvas of the present. For years the two had been friends; later months had seen him her avowed suitor. In this very room he had bent over her at the harpsichord when the song was finished; had sat beside her in the deep window seat while the stars brightened, before the candles were brought in. Now, for a moment, he stood with his hand over his eyes; then, letting it fall, he spoke with firmness. “Evelyn,” he said, “if I have wronged you, forgive me. Our friendship that has been I lay at your feet: forget it and forget me. You are noble, generous, high of mind: I pray you to let no remembrance of me trouble your life. May it be happy,--may all good attend you.... Evelyn, good-by!” He kneeled and lifted to his lips the hem of her dress. As he rose, and bowing low would have taken formal leave of the two beside her, she put out her hand, staying him by the gesture and the look upon her colorless face. “You spoke of a search,” she said. “What search?”