“Where is Cornelia, Barbara?”
“I have just come in,” was Barbara’s reply. “I dare say she is following me.”
So she was, for she entered a moment after, her voice raised in anger at the gardener, who had disobeyed her orders, and obeyed the wishes of Lady Isabel.
The evening wore on to ten, and as the time-piece struck the hour, Barbara rose from her chair in amazement.
“I did not think it was so late. Surely some one must have come for me.”
“I will inquire,” was Lady Isabel’s answer, and Mr. Carlyle touched the bell. No one had come for Miss Hare.
“Then I fear I must trouble Peter,” cried Barbara. “Mamma may be gone to rest, tired, and papa must have forgotten me. It would never do for me to get locked out,” she gaily added.
“As you were one night before,” said Mr. Carlyle, significantly.
He alluded to the night when Barbara was in the grove of trees with her unfortunate brother, and Mr. Hare was on the point, unconsciously, of locking her out. She had given Mr. Carlyle the history, but its recollection now called up a smart pain, and a change passed over her face.
“Oh! Don’t, Archibald,” she uttered, in the impulse of the moment; “don’t recall it.”