"Cicely!" she cried, a world of desperation in her tone; "sure, 'tis impossible."
Yet even as she spoke she knew it to be true, for if Ralph had so misunderstood her words that morning, why might not others also?
"Oh! Cis, what shall I do?" she questioned hopelessly. "'Tis all a mistake. I meant not—no, indeed, I meant not that he should leave us. What can I do?"
"Nay, child," answered Cicely calmly, "I see not what can be done now. The man has gone. 'Tis pity you have sent him so discourteously away, but he has gone."
As she spoke she glanced once more quickly, questioningly at her cousin, then gathering together her flowers, she turned back towards the house.
But as she went she smiled mischievously and hummed a light ditty she herself had learned from Sir Rupert, and thus ran the words:
"When maiden fair, to rouse despair,
Doth ponder long 'twixt yea and no,
The man who sighs, an he be wise,
Will lightly turn his back and go.
For tho' he fear, while he be near,
Of love for him the maid hath none;
Yet when, alack! he turns his back,
He'll find her heart is quickly won."
Cicely passed into the house, leaving Barbara standing alone by the sun-dial heedless alike of song or smile; for her, song and laughter seemed to have died forever. As she watched the shadow creep along the dial, it seemed to her like the shadow creeping over her soul, darkening each succeeding moment of her life as her sun passed further on his way. And as the shadow crept, so must her life creep on henceforth; slowly, in silence and in shadow to the end.
And all her heart surged up in the despairing cry:
"I love him, I love him; he has gone!"