“Of course. A countryman’s visit to London entails buying presents for his friends; at least, it used to be so, in the old-fashioned days.”
“When people made their wills before starting, and were a fortnight doing the journey in a wagon,” laughed Barbara. “Grandpapa used to tell us tales of that, when we were children. But is it really something for mamma?”
“Don’t I tell you so? I have brought something for you.”
“Oh! What is it?” she uttered, her color rising, and wondering whether he was in jest or earnest.
“There’s an impatient girl! ‘What is it?’ Wait a moment, and you shall see what it is.”
He put the parcel or roll he was carrying upon a garden chair, and proceeded to search his pockets. Every pocket was visited, apparently in vain.
“Barbara, I think it is gone. I must have lost it somehow.”
Her heart beat as she stood there, silently looking up at him in the moonlight. Was it lost? What had it been?
But, upon a second search, he came upon something in the pocket of his coat-tail. “Here it is, I believe; what brought it there?” He opened a small box, and taking out a long, gold chain, threw it around her neck. A locket was attached to it.
Her cheeks’ crimson went and came; her heart beat more rapidly. She could not speak a word of thanks; and Mr. Carlyle took up the roll, and walked on into the presence of Mrs. Hare.