Sidon,"-- to the footman,--"get down and take my horse.

If your master wakes, tell him that Mistress Evelyn tired of the coach, and that I am picking her a nosegay." Tyre and Sidon, Haward's steed, the four black coach horses, the vermilion-and-cream coach, and the slumbering Colonel, all made a progress of an hundred yards to the pine-tree, where the cortege came to a halt.
Mistress Evelyn looked up from the flower-gathering to find the road bare before her, and Haward, sitting upon a log, watching her with something between a smile and a frown.
"You think that I, also, weigh true love by the weight of the purse," he said.

"I do not care overmuch for your gold, Evelyn." She did not answer at once, but stood with her head slightly bent, fingering the waxen flowers with a delicate, lingering touch.

Now that there was no longer the noise of the wheels and the horses' hoofs, the forest stillness, which is composed of sound, made itself felt.

The call of birds, the whir of insects, the murmur of the wind in the treetops, low, grave, incessant, and eternal as the sound of the sea, joined themselves to the slow waves of fragrance, the stretch of road whereon nothing moved, the sunlight lying on the earth, and made a spacious quiet.
"I think that there is nothing for which you care overmuch," she said at last.