"Where is your sister?" asked Miss Sherman, sharply, turning to Bettina as Mrs. Douglas passed into an adjoining room.
"Mr. Sumner asked her to help him get the letters," replied she, demurely.
Miss Sherman reddened, and Malcom's eyes danced.
"How strange!" said Margery, innocently.
The pictures were, unfortunately, of secondary interest to all the group save Margery; and, as Mr. Sumner and Barbara did not return, they, before very long, declared themselves tired, and returned home. The truth was, each one was longing for private thought.
Meanwhile Barbara and Mr. Sumner were on the Grand Canal. The sun shone brightly, and Mr. Sumner drew the curtains a little closer together to shield Barbara's face and, perhaps, his own. The gondolier rowed slowly. "Where to?" he had asked, and was answered only by a gesture to go on. So on they floated.
Barbara had obeyed without thought Mr. Sumner's sudden request to accompany him. But no sooner had they stepped into the gondola than she wished, oh, so earnestly! that she had made some excuse.
As Mr. Sumner did not speak, she tried to make some commonplace remark, but her voice would not reach her lips; so she sat, flushed and wondering, timid and silent.
At last he spoke, gravely and tenderly, of his early life, when she, a little girl, had known him; of his love and hope; of his sorrow and the years of lonely work in foreign lands; of his sister's coming; of his meeting with them all, and of how much they had brought into his life. But, as he looked up, he could not wait to finish the story as he had planned. He saw the sweet, flushed face so near him, the downcast eyes, the little hand that tried to keep from trembling but could not, and his voice grew sharp with longing:—
"Barbara! oh, little Barbara! you have made me love you as I never have dreamed of love. Can you love me a little, Barbara? Will you be my wife?" And he held out his hands, but dared not touch her.