"I am, indeed I am," sobbed Fanny. "I don't care what they say, and I want to help you." She did not tell Barbara that she had spent hours that day in a fruitless search for a boarding-place for her.
"There," said Barbara, when they nearly had reached Mrs. Tweedie's, "don't feel badly any longer. I'll send for my things as soon as I find a place to stay. And don't worry, Fanny, about me, please, everything will come right I know." Fanny kissed her, regardless of whoever might be looking, and went home. Barbara hesitated a moment, and then walked toward the home of Doctor Jones. When Mrs. Jones came to the door in response to the bell she did not ask Barbara to come in.
"Really," she replied when Barbara made known her errand, "there's not a spare room in the house."
Of course Barbara understood, and was very sorry. She next called on Mrs. Blake, and received the same answer. Mrs. Thornton, Mrs. Darling, and Mrs. Browning all refused. No, they did not refuse, they made excuses—sugar-coated lies. Barbara was beginning to understand that Mrs. Tweedie was not the only one who had turned against her. Darkness had fallen without as well as within. Trying to realize her position, Barbara walked slowly back toward the village. When near the parsonage she stopped, and looked up wistfully at the house and the stream of yellow light that shone down the path from a lamp in the parson's study. Then she looked across the street toward the church so black and still with the steeple rising toward the stars. Barbara hoped that in the parsonage she would find a friend with a kind word. She longed to run into the house and pour out the wretchedness in her aching heart to his mother; to talk of him, the one they both loved. Oh, how happy she could be under the roof that had sheltered him! She went to the door and knocked. Mrs. Flint came, but her answer was the same as the others, except that there were tears in her eyes when she bade Barbara good night. Mrs. Flint would have taken Barbara into her home and heart if she had dared, but her husband had paced his study floor all day, and was in a terrible mood. Once she had listened for a moment and heard him mutter: "The disgrace," and "My son—my son cares for such a woman!" He too had guessed Will's secret, and she knew that Barbara would not be welcome.
When Barbara left the parsonage she walked aimlessly about the village for an hour. The wind came up blustering and cold; she began to feel faint, but could think of no other place to go. At last weariness overcame her, and hardly knowing where she was, she stopped and leaned against a gate-post to rest. Then a strange feeling came over her, she tried to resist it and turned to walk on, but staggered for a moment, and then fell.
After supper Mrs. Stout had gone into a neighbour's for a moment, and when she came scurrying back with a shawl drawn tightly over her head and shoulders, she tripped and almost fell over Barbara, who was lying in her gateway.
"Goodness!" she exclaimed, as she recovered her balance, and then knelt to see who it was. "If it ain't Miss Wallace!"
"Yes," Barbara murmured, as Mrs. Stout helped her to stand and led her into the house.
"You poor child," said Mrs. Stout, as she bustled about making Barbara comfortable on a couch before the sitting-room fire.
"I had walked a long way and was faint," murmured Barbara, trying to explain.