within and without. The woman whispered to the child, and the latter ran
to the cabin, filled her upgathered skirts with the loaves of her mother's
baking, and came back to the group upon the knoll beneath the sugar-tree.
The Governor himself took the bread from the little maid, then drew her
toward him.

"Thanks, my pretty one," he said, with a smile that for the moment quite
dispelled the expression of haughtiness which marred an otherwise comely
countenance. "Come, give me a kiss, sweeting, and tell me thy name."

The child looked at him gravely. "My name is Audrey," she answered, "and
if you eat all of our bread we'll have none for supper."

The Governor laughed, and kissed the small dark face. "I'll give thee a
gold moidore, instead, my maid. Odso! thou'rt as dark and wild, almost, as
was my little Queen of the Saponies that died last year. Hast never been
away from the mountains, child?"

Audrey shook her head, and thought the question but a foolish one. The
mountains were everywhere. Had she not been to the top of the hills, and
seen for herself that they went from one edge of the world to the other?
She was glad to slip from the Governor's encircling arm, and from the gay
ring beneath the sugar-tree; to take refuge with herself down by the water
side, and watch the fairy tale from afar off.

The rangers, with the pioneer and his son for their guests, dined beside
the kitchen fire, which they had kindled at a respectful distance from the
group upon the knoll. Active, bronzed and daring men, wild riders, bold
fighters, lovers of the freedom of the woods, they sprawled upon the dark
earth beneath the walnut-trees, laughed and joked, and told old tales of