Miriam obeyed silently, taking an occasional swift, keen look at Barbara, but the calm, impassive face and the deep eyes were inscrutable.
The Meaning Changed
As soon as she was alone again, she began to write, with difficulty, from her mother's letter, altering it as little as possible, and yet changing the meaning of it all. She could trust herself to read from her own sheet, but not from the other. It took a long time, but at last she was satisfied.
It was almost dusk when Ambrose North returned, and Barbara asked for a candle to be placed on the small table at the head of her bed. She also sent away the book and pencil and the paper she had not used. Miriam's curiosity was faintly aroused, but, as she told herself, she could wait. She had already waited long.
"Daddy," said, Barbara, softly, when they were alone, "do you know what day it is?"
"No," he answered; "why?"
"It's my birthday—I'm twenty-two to-day."
"Are you? Your dear mother was twenty-two when she—I wish you were like your mother, Barbara."
"Mother left a letter with Aunt Miriam," said Barbara, gently. "She gave it to me to-day."
The old man sprang to his feet. "A letter!" he cried, reaching out a trembling hand. "For me?"