“I have wanted you every day!” said Barbara, and began again to sob, but recovered herself with an effort.
“This will never do!” she cried, laughing through her tears. “I shall go crazy with having you! And I've not seen you yet! Let me go, please. I want to look at you!”
Richard released her. She lifted a blushing, tearful face to his. But there was only joy, no pain in her tears; only delight, no shame in her blushes. One glance at the simple, manly face before her, so full of the trust that induces trust, would have satisfied any true woman that she was as safe in his thoughts as in those of her mother. She gazed at him one long silent moment.
“How splendid you are!” she cried, like a wild schoolgirl. “How good of you to grow like that! I wish I could see you on Miss Brown!—What are you going to do, Richard?”
While she spoke, Richard was pasturing his eyes, the two mouths of his soul, on the heavenly meadow of her face; and she for very necessity went on talking, that she might not cry again.
“Are you going back to the bookbinding?” she said.
“I do not know. Sir Wilton—my father hasn't told me yet what he wants me to do.—Wasn't it good of him to send me to Oxford?”
“You've been at Oxford then all this time?—I suppose he will make an officer of you now!—Not that I care! I am content with whatever contents you!”
“I dare say he will hardly like me to live by my hands!” answered Richard, laughing. “He would count it a degradation! There I shall never be able to think like a gentleman!”
Barbara looked perplexed.