Mistress Deborah Darden pressed her thin lips together, and eyed her lord
and master with scant measure of conjugal fondness. "It's about some one
nearer home than your bishops and commissaries," she said. "Hide passed by
this morning, going to the river field. I was in the garden, and he
stopped to speak to me. Mr. Haward is home from England. He came to the
great house last night, and he ordered his horse for ten o'clock this
morning, and asked the nearest way through the fields to the parsonage."

Darden whistled, and put down his drink untasted.

"Enter the most powerful gentleman of my vestry!" he exclaimed. "He'll be
that in a month's time. A member of the Council, too, no doubt, and with
the Governor's ear. He's a scholar and fine gentleman. Deborah, clear away
this trash. Lay out my books, fetch a bottle of Canary, and give me my
Sunday coat. Put flowers on the table, and a dish of bonchrétiens, and get
on your tabby gown. Make your curtsy at the door; then leave him to me."

"And Audrey?" said his wife.

Darden, about to rise, sank back again and sat still, a hand upon either
arm of his chair. "Eh!" he said; then, in a meditative tone, "That is
so,--there is Audrey."

"If he has eyes, he'll see that for himself," retorted Mistress Deborah
tartly. "'More to the purpose,' he'll say, 'where is the money that I
gave you for her?'"

"Why, it's gone," answered Darden "Gone in maintenance,--gone in meat and
drink and raiment. He didn't want it buried. Pshaw, Deborah, he has quite