There were visitors to whom she was not denied. Darden came at times, sat in Mistress Stagg’s sunny parlor, and talked to his sometime ward much as he had talked in the glebe-house living room,--discursively, of men and parochial affairs and his own unmerited woes. Audrey sat and heard him, with her eyes upon the garden without the window. When he lifted from the chair his great shambling figure, and took his stained old hat and heavy cane, Audrey rose also, curtsied, and sent her duty to Mistress Deborah, but she asked no questions as to that past home of hers. It seemed not to interest her that the creek was frozen so hard that one could walk upon it to Fair View, or that the minister had bought a field from his wealthy neighbor, and meant to plant it with Oronoko. Only when he told her that the little wood--the wood that she had called her own--was being cleared, and that all day could be heard the falling of the trees, did she lift startled eyes and draw a breath like a moan. The minister looked at her from under shaggy brows, shook his head, and went his way to his favorite ordinary, rum, and a hand at cards. Mistress Deborah she beheld no more; but once the Widow Constance brought Barbara to town, and the two, being very simple women, went to the play to see the old Audrey, and saw instead a queen, tinseled, mock-jeweled, clad in silk, who loved and triumphed, despaired and died. The rude theatre shook to the applause. When it was all over, the widow and Barbara went dazed to their lodging, and lay awake through the night talking of these marvels. In the morning they found the small white house, and Audrey came to them in the garden. When she had kissed them, the three sat down in the arbor; for it was a fine, sunny morning, and not cold. But the talk was not easy; Barbara’s eyes were so round, and the widow kept mincing her words. Only when they were joined by Mistress Stagg, to whom the widow became voluble, the two girls spoke aside. “I have a guinea, Barbara,” said Audrey. “Mr. Stagg gave it to me, and I need it not,--I need naught in the world. Barbara, here!--’tis for a warm dress and a Sunday hood.” “Oh, Audrey,” breathed Barbara, “they say you might live at Fair View,--that you might marry Mr. Haward and be a fine lady”-- Audrey laid her hand upon the other’s lips. “Hush! See, Barbara, you must have the dress made thus, like mine.” “But if ’tis so, Audrey!” persisted poor Barbara. “Mother and I talked of it last night. She said you would want a waiting-woman, and I thought--Oh, Audrey!” Audrey bit her quivering lip and dashed away the tears. “I’ll want no waiting-woman, Barbara. I’m naught but Audrey that you used to be kind to. Let’s talk of other things. Have you missed me from the woods all these days?”