She would gladly have kissed her, but the family habit of reserve was strong upon her.
"Let me see," continued her aunt, "can you ride?"
Barbara laughed.
"I used to ride Topsy—the Shetland, you know—long ago, but father sold him."
Her eyes followed her aunt's across the garden and the end of the street, to the distant glimpse of the Bois de Boulogne, where riders passed at frequent intervals, and her eyes glowed. "Doesn't it look jolly?" she said. "I used to love it."
Aunt Anne nodded.
"I used to ride in my youth, and your father rode beautifully before he was married, and when he could afford to keep a horse. He would like you to have done so too, I think. If there is any place where you can learn in St. Servan, you may. It will be a good change from your studies."
"Oh, aunt!" and this time reserve was thrown to the winds, and Barbara most heartily embraced her. "Oh, how perfectly splendid of you! It has always been my dream to ride properly, but I never, never thought it would come true."
"Dreams do not often," Miss Britton returned, with a scarcely audible sigh; then she gathered up her soft white wool. "There is the first bell, child, and we have not changed for dinner. Come, be quick."
The next morning a heavily-laden cab passed from the Rue St. Sulpice through the gates into the city. Miss Britton, finding that a friend of the Belvoirs was going almost the whole way to St. Servan, had arranged for Barbara to go under her care. But it was with very regretful eyes that the girl watched the train, bearing her aunt away, leave the station, and she was rather a silent traveller when, later in the morning, she was herself en route for St. Servan.