"Letters? You came with those? Upon my word Miss Strange, it's very kind——"
He stopped short, looking from the letters to her and back again. Barbara shrank away, drawing herself together, but she resolutely fixed her eyes upon his face.
"Why—why—" stammered Harding, turning as pale as death, and then he dropped into a chair and began to laugh.
The letter that lay nearest to him was directed "R. Harding, Esq." in his own handwriting.
"It is my fault!" cried Barbara. "Tell me what I have done! It is something that matters very much! I knew it—I felt it was, the moment I found them. I came with them directly—I was so afraid you might have gone away. Don't laugh! Oh I know it matters dreadfully!"
Harding had had time to master himself.
"On the contrary," he said, "it doesn't matter at all."
He threw himself back in his chair, tilting it carelessly, and looking at Barbara.
"Doesn't it?" said the girl incredulously. "Doesn't it really?"
"Not a bit; why should it? How did it happen?"