of William and Mary should have its say upon the occasion, and the brightest scholar thereof was even now closeted with the Latin master.  That the copy of verses giving the welcome of so many future planters, Burgesses, and members of Council would be choice in thought and elegant in expression, there could be no reasonable doubt.  The Council was to give an entertainment at the Capitol; one day had been set aside for a muster of militia in the meadow beyond the college, another for a great horse-race; many small parties were arranged; and last, but not least, on the night of the day following Darden’s appearance in town, his Excellency was to give a ball at the Palace.  Add to all this that two notorious pirates were standing their trial before a court-martial, with every prospect of being hanged within the se’ennight; that a deputation of Nottoways and Meherrins, having business with the white fathers in Williamsburgh, were to be persuaded to dance their wildest, whoop their loudest, around a bonfire built in the market square; that at the playhouse Cato was to be given with extraordinary magnificence, and one may readily see that there might have been found, in this sunny September week, places less entertaining than Williamsburgh.

Darden’s old white horse, with its double load, plodded along the street that led to the toy Palace of this toy capital.  The Palace, of course, was not its riders’ destination; instead, when they had crossed Nicholson Street, they drew up before a particularly small white house, so hidden away behind lilac bushes and trellised grapevines that it gave but here and there a pale hint of its existence.  It was planted in the shadow of a larger building, and a path led around it to what seemed a pleasant, shady, and extensive garden.

Mistress Deborah gave a sigh of satisfaction.  “Seven years come Martinmas since I last stayed overnight with Mary Stagg!  And we were born in the same village, and at Bath what mighty friends we were!  She was playing Dorinda,—­that’s in ‘The Beaux’ Stratagem,’ Audrey,—­and her dress was just an old striped Persian, vastly unbecoming.  Her Ladyship’s pink alamode, that Major D——­ spilt a dish of chocolate over, she gave to me for carrying a note; and I gave it to Mary (she was Mary Baker then),—­for I looked hideous in pink,—­and she was that grateful, as well she might be!  Mary, Mary!”

A slender woman, with red-brown hair and faded cheeks, came running from the house to the gate.  “At last, my dear Deborah!  I vow I had given you up!  Says I to Mirabell an hour ago,—­you know that is my name for Charles, for ’twas when he played Mirabell to my Millamant that we fell in love,—­’Well,’ says I, ’I’ll lay a gold-furbelowed scarf to a yard of oznaburg that Mr. Darden, riding home through the night, and in liquor, perhaps, has fallen and broken his neck, and Deborah can’t come.’  And says Mirabell—­But la, my dear, there you stand in your safeguard, and I’m keeping the gate shut on you!  Come in.  Come in, Audrey.  Why, you’ve grown to be a woman!  You were just a brown slip of a thing, that Lady Day, two years ago, that I spent with Deborah.  Come in the both of you.  There are cakes and a bottle of Madeira.”