The dark eyes that met his were the eyes of the child who, in the darkness, through the corn, had run from him, her helper. “There was one,” she whispered, and looked over her shoulder. Haward drew her to the seat beneath the cherry-tree, and there, while he sat beside her, elbow on knee and chin on hand, watching her, she told him of Hugon. It was so natural to tell him. When she had made an end of her halting, broken sentences, and he spoke to her gravely and kindly, she hung upon his words, and thought him wise and wonderful as a king. He told her that he would speak to Darden, and did not despair of persuading that worthy to forbid the trader his house. Also he told her that in this settled, pleasant, every-day Virginia, and in the eighteenth century, a maid, however poor and humble, might not be married against her will. If this half-breed had threats to utter, there was always the law of the land. A few hours in the pillory or a taste of the sheriff’s whip might not be amiss. Finally, if the trader made his suit again, Audrey must let him know, and Monsieur Jean Hugon should be taught that he had another than a helpless, friendless girl to deal with. Audrey listened and was comforted, but the shadow did not quite leave her eyes. “He is waiting for me now,” she said fearfully to Haward, who had not missed the shadow. “He followed me down the creek, and is waiting over against the gate in the wall. When I go back he will follow me again, and at last I will have to cross to his side. And then he will go home with me, and make me listen to him. His eyes burn me, and when his hand touches me I see--I see”-- Her frame shook, and she raised to his gaze a countenance suddenly changed into Tragedy’s own. “I don’t know why,” she said, in a stricken voice, “but of them all that I kissed good-by that night I now see only Molly. I suppose she was about as old as I am when they killed her. We were always together. I can’t remember her face very clearly; only her eyes, and how red her lips were. And her hair: it came to her knees, and mine is just as long. For a long, long time after you went away, when I could not sleep because it was dark, or when I was frightened or Mistress Deborah beat me, I saw them all; but now I see only Molly,--Molly lying there _dead_.” There was a silence in the garden, broken presently by Haward. “Ay, Molly,” he said absently.