"Are ye satisfied now?" Doctor McKirdy held up the hooded candle, and turned the light on her flushed, excited face.
"Yes!—no!—I mean that of course I know now there is no one in the house, but someone, a man, certainly came in."
For long hours Barbara lay awake, listening with beating heart for any unwonted sound, but none broke across the May night, and she fell asleep as the birds woke singing.
At eight in the morning Léonie brought her a note just arrived from Fletchings: "Dearest,—Your kind heart will be grieved to learn that my uncle died, quite suddenly, last evening. I nearly came over, then thought it wisest to wait till the morning. Better perhaps make McKirdy break it to her."
CHAPTER XXIII.
"O sovereign power of love! O grief! O balm!"
A whole year had gone by, and it had been, so Chancton village and the whole neighbourhood agreed, the dullest and longest twelve months the place had ever known. What events had happened had all been of a disturbing or lugubrious character, and even Miss Vipen confessed that there had been really nothing pleasant to talk about!
The Cottage was again empty, for Oliver Boringdon and his mother had gone, and their departure, especially that of Mrs. Boringdon, had certainly been viewed with sincere regret. She was such an agreeable, pleasant person, and the village people on their side had soon regretted Oliver's just dealings, which compared most commendably with the favouritism and uncertain behaviour of Doctor McKirdy, who now, as before Mr. Boringdon's brief tenure of the land agency, acted as go-between to the tenants and Madame Sampiero.