"When I ride this way I shall always stop at the minister's house," said
Haward, "when, if there is aught which you need or wish, you must tell me
of it. Think of me as your friend, child."

He laid his hand lightly and caressingly upon her head. The ruffles at his
wrist, soft, fine, and perfumed, brushed her forehead and her eyes. "The
path through your labyrinth to its beechen heart was hard to find," he
continued, "but I can easily retrace it. No, trouble not yourself, child.
Stay for a time where you are. I wish to speak to the minister alone."

His hand was lifted. Audrey felt rather than saw him go. Only a few feet,
and the dogwood stars, the purple mist of the Judas-tree, the white
fragrance of a wild cherry, came like a painted arras between them. For a
time she could hear the movement of the branches as he put them aside; but
presently this too ceased, and the place was left to her and to all the
life that called it home.

It was the same wood, surely, into which she had run two hours before, and
yet--and yet--When her tears were spent, and she stood up, leaning, with
her loosened hair and her gown that was the color of oak bark, against the
beech-tree, she looked about her and wondered. The wonder did not last,
for she found an explanation.

"It has been blessed," said Audrey, with all reverence and simplicity,
"and that is why the light is so different."