"It grows late indeed," replied Evelyn, with lifted face and a voice low, clear, and sweet as a silver bell,—"so late that there is a rose flush in the sky beyond the river. Look! you may see it through yonder window."
She touched his hand and made him look to the far window. "Who is it that stands in the shadow, hiding her face in her hands?" he asked at last, beneath his breath.
"'Tis Audrey," answered Evelyn, in the same clear, sweet, and passionless tones. She took her hand from his and addressed herself to her father. "Dear sir," she said, "to my mind no quarrel exists between us and this gentleman. There is no reason"—she drew herself up—"no reason why we should not extend to Mr. Marmaduke Haward the hospitality of Westover." She smiled and leaned against her father's arm. "And now let us three,—you and Maria, whom I protest you keep too long at the harpsichord, and I, who love this hour of the evening,—let us go walk in the garden and see what flowers the frost has spared."
CHAPTER XXVI
SANCTUARY
"Child," demanded Haward, "why did you frighten me so?" He took her hands from her face, and drew her from the shadow of the curtain into the evening glow. Her hands lay passive in his; her eyes held the despair of a runner spent and fallen, with the goal just in sight. "Would have had me go again to the mountains for you, little maid?" Haward's voice trembled with the delight of his ended quest.
"Call me not by that name," Audrey said. "One that is dead used it."
"I will call you love," he answered,—"my love, my dear love, my true love!"
"Nor that either," she said, and caught her breath. "I know not why you should speak to me so."
"What must I call you then?" he asked, with the smile still upon his lips.