March was silent.
XXXII.
JORDAN
Barbara lay on a rug in her room, reading before the fragrant ashes of a perished fire. She heard her father's angry step, and his stern rap on her door. Before she could more than lift her brow he entered.
"Barb!—O what sort of posture—" She started, and sat coiled on the rug.
"Barb, how is it you're not with your mother?"
"Mom-a sent me out, pop-a. She thought if I'd leave her she might drop asleep."
He smiled contemptuously. "How long ago was that?"
"About fifteen minutes."