The high, quick notes of the song suited the sunshiny weather, the sheen
of the river, the azure skies. A light wind brought from the orchard a
vagrant troop of pink and white petals to camp upon the silken sleeve of
Mistress Evelyn Byrd. The gentleman sitting beside her gathered them up
and gave them again to the breeze.

"It sounds sweetly enough," he said, "but terribly old-fashioned:--

'I weigh not true love by the weight of the purse,
And beauty is beauty in every degree.'

That's not Court doctrine."

The lady to whom he spoke rested her cheek upon her hand, and looked past
the singers to the blossoming slope and the sky above. "So much the worse
for the Court," she said. "So much the better for"--

Haward glanced at her. "For Virginia?" he ended, with a smile. "Do you
think that they do not weigh love with gold here in Virginia, Evelyn? It
isn't really Arcady."

"So much the better for some place, somewhere," she answered quietly. "I
did not say Virginia. Indeed, from what travelers like yourself have told
me, I think the country lies not upon this earth. But the story is at an
end, and we must applaud with the rest. It sounded sweetly, after
all,--though it was only a lying song. What next?"

Her father, from his station beside the May Queen, caught the question,
and broke the flow of his smiling compliments to answer it. "A race