"I got your telegram," said Barbara.
"When?" he asked anxiously.
She broke into a sudden smile. "Oh," she said, "about fourteen hundred years ago."
"Barbara," he said, "that's a miracle! If you'd said thirteen hundred or fifteen hundred it would have been guessing, but fourteen hundred is the exact time that has passed since I telegraphed."
"Have you had breakfast?"
"No," he said, "I didn't have time."
They strolled through the familiar house, talking nonsense. They were almost too glad to see each other, for there was now no longer any question of Barbara making up her mind. It had been made up for her, and Wilmot knew this somehow without being told. But when had the definite change come?--that change which made her caring for Wilmot different from all her other carings? She could not say.
He had dreaded telling her about Harry West's death. And when he had done so he watched her grave face with appealing eyes. Presently she smiled a little.
"I'm not heartless," she said, "but I'm going to keep on forgetting all the times when there was anybody but you. I expect most girls do a lot of shilly-shallying before they are sure of themselves."
"And you are really sure of yourself?"