"Hiram!" said Barbara, laughing.
He led her to the loom-bench.
"Sit there on high, as you did the night you put me into a state of misery from which I haven't escaped yet. There, put your feet on the chair-rung, as you did that night."
He spoke with peremptoriness, as he placed a chair for her feet, so that she might sit with her back to the loom. Then he drew up another shuck-bottomed chair in such a way as to sit beside and yet half facing her, but lower.
"Now," he said, doggedly, "we can finish the talk we had then."
"That seems ages ago," said Barbara, dreamily; "so much has happened since."
"So long ago that you don't care to renew the subject?"
"I—" But Barbara stopped short. The feeble blaze in the fire-place suddenly went out.
Hiram did not know where to begin. He got up and took some dry chips from a basket and threw them on the slumbering coals, so as to set the flame a-going again. Then he sat down in his chair and looked up at the now silent Barbara, and tried in vain to guess her mood. But she remained silent and waited for him to take the lead.
"Do you remember what you said then?" he asked.