"I ought to know it," said Barbara. "Oh, what a wicked, wicked woman they think I am!" she moaned.
"But you're not, indeed you're not," cried Fanny as she impulsively threw her arms about Barbara and kissed her.
"There, there," said Mrs. Stout, "cryin' won't help—hark!" Some one ran up the steps, and set the door-bell to jingling furiously.
"Goodness! who can that be?" exclaimed Mrs. Stout, as she started for the door. Barbara sprang to her feet. Her hair was disarranged, her cheeks were wet with tears, there was a look of longing in her eyes, and on her lips trembled a smile.
"Why, Willie Flint!" they heard Mrs. Stout exclaim. Barbara did not move, but Fanny tiptoed from the room. There was a heavy step in the hall. At the sound Barbara took a step forward.
"Will, Will!" she cried, as he came into the room.
In a moment his arms were about her, and then some one closed the door softly.
"Did I do wrong, Will?" Barbara asked an hour later when she had finished the story of the past week, omitting only the miserable part that his father had played.
"No, Barbara," he replied, and she was satisfied. But Will was not satisfied. He had walked up from the station with some one who had told him of his father's sermon, not knowing that Barbara was more to him than an acquaintance.