Stagg put out a timid hand and felt the
flesh if it were warm; then bent and lightly kissed hand or arm or the
soft curve of the throat. Audrey stirred not, and the other went
noiselessly away; or Audrey opened dark eyes, faintly smiled and raised
herself to meet the half-awed caress, then sank to rest again.

Into Mistress Stagg's life had struck a shaft of colored light, had come a
note of strange music, had flown a bird of paradise. It was and it was not
her dead child come again. She knew that her Lucy had never been thus, and
the love that she gave Audrey was hardly mother love. It was more nearly
an homage, which, had she tried, she could not have explained. When they
were alone together, Audrey called the older woman "mother," often knelt
and laid her head upon the other's lap or shoulder. In all her ways she
was sweet and duteous, grateful and eager to serve. But her spirit dwelt
in a rarer air, and there were heights and depths where the waif and her
protectress might not meet. To this the latter gave dumb recognition, and
though she could not understand, yet loved her protegee. At night, in the
playhouse, this love was heightened into exultant worship. At all times
there was delight in the girl's beauty, pride in the comment and wonder of
the town, self-congratulation and the pleasing knowledge that wisdom is
vindicated of its children. Was not all this of her bringing about? Did it
not first occur to her that the child might take Jane Day's place? Even
Charles, who strutted and plumed himself and offered his snuffbox to every
passer-by, must acknowledge that! Mistress Stagg stopped her sewing to
laugh triumphantly, then fell to work more diligently than ever; for it
was her pleasure to dress Darden's Audrey richly, in soft colors, heavy
silken stuffs upon which was lavished a wealth of delicate needlework. It
was chiefly while she sat and sewed upon these pretty things, with Audrey,
book on knee, close beside her, that her own child seemed to breathe
again.

Audrey thanked her and kissed her, and wore what she was given to wear,
nor thought how her beauty was enhanced. If others saw it, if the wonder
grew by what it fed on, if she was talked of, written of, pledged, and
lauded by a frank and susceptible people, she knew of all this little
enough, and for what she knew cared not at all. Her days went dreamily by,
nor very sad nor happy; full of work, yet vague and unmarked as desert
sands. What was real was a