This was Barbara's own judgment, and confirmed her new appreciation of her aunt's intelligence. At the same time, this apparently easy acceptance, on Mistress Mehitable's part, of Barbara's emancipation, seemed almost too good to be true. Her heart swelled passionately toward this blue-eyed, calm, patrician little woman, whom she had so long misunderstood. She came back, put a caressing arm around Mistress Mehitable's waist, kissed her fervently, and looked deep into her eyes. Mistress Mehitable actually trembled in the recesses of her soul lest that searching gaze should discover what she had nearly said about young girls and novel-reading! But she kept the blue deeps of her eyes clear and tranquil, and her lips smiled frank response.
"Oh, you are so good and wonderful and wise, honey," Barbara said, at length. "What a foolish, foolish child I've been,—and you, my dear, dear father's sister! Why, just to look at you ought to have brought me to my senses. So many ways you look like him!"
Then a thing very remarkable indeed took place. Mistress Mehitable's fine poise wavered and vanished. She almost clutched Barbara to her breast, then buried her head on the firm young shoulders and cried a little quite unrestrainedly, feeling a great ache in her heart for her dead brother Winthrop, and a great love in her heart for her dead brother's child. Barbara was surprised, but greatly touched by this outburst. She held her close, and patted her hair, and called her soft names suddenly remembered from the soft-voiced endearments of plantation days; till presently Mistress Mehitable recovered, and laughed gently through her tears.
"Don't think me silly, dear," she pleaded, "but I've just realised for the first time that you have your dear father's wonderful eyes. Your colouring, and your hair, and your mouth, are all very different from his. But your eyes,—they are his exactly. Such wonderful, deep, clear, true eyes, Barbara, sometimes sea-gray, sometimes sea-green. Where have my eyes been all this time?"
Barbara sighed happily. "Isn't it lovely we have found each other at last, Aunt Hitty? I don't think it will be so hard now for me to be good!"
Then she picked up "Clarissa" again, and ran gaily out to the garden.
Barbara's apple-tree had three great limbs branching out at about five feet from the ground, forming a most luxurious crotch in which to sit and read. Smaller apple-trees, interspersed with tangled shrubbery and some trellised vines, almost surrounded it, so that on three sides it afforded perfect seclusion. Sweet airs breathed through it, from the neighbouring thyme and mint beds; and sunshine sifted down through its leaves in an intricate and exquisite pattern; and a pair of catbirds, nesting in the shrubs close by, made it their haunt without regard to Barbara's presence. As she looked at this dear nook, with all its memories of intimate hours and dreams, Barbara thought to herself how glad she was that she had not succeeded in running away from Second Westings. She clambered cleverly into the tree, settled herself with a long breath of satisfaction, swung her little scarlet-shod feet idly too and fro, and made a long, absorbing survey of her green realm. Then, locking her ankles lithely as only a slim girl can, she opened her book, and was soon engrossed in the fortunes of Lovelace and Clarissa.
About the time that Barbara was settling herself in the apple-tree, Robert Gault was triumphantly pushing Barbara's canoe to land through the gold-green sedges on the Second Westings shore of the little lake. With pole and paddle he had made the ascent of the stream from Gault House, having been seized that morning with a violent conviction that it was his duty to return the canoe without delay. He had poled through the rapids, and paddled eagerly through the silent solemnities of the woods, too intent upon his purpose to be alive to their mystic influences. The furtive eyes that watched him from pine-tree boll and ironwood bush, from skyey branch or moss-veiled root, touched not his consciousness. To his self-centred mood the peopled stillness was empty as a desert. His eyes, at other times alert and not uninitiated, were turned inward upon his own dreams. He emerged from the great shadows, paddled through the meadowy windings with their iris-beds and lilies, and passed at length old Debby's clamorous dooryard, giving hardly a glance to the green slope with its ducks and fowls, the little red-doored cabin against its trees, or old Debby herself, with the cock-eared yellow pup beside her, sitting on the stoop. He was in a hurry, and had caught glimpses of the open waters of the lake beyond; and he knew from Barbara's description that Mistress Mehitable's landing-place was straight across the lake.
But old Debby, sitting knitting in the sun with the cock-eared yellow pup beside her, saw him, and chuckled at his haste. She had been over to Second Westings the day before, and had got the whole story from Doctor Jim. She had made up her mind to keep well out of the way, till Barbara's indignation should have time to cool; but she was mightily interested in the youth who had been so readily persuaded to the backing of Barbara's mad venture. A moment later she made up her mind that she must have a good look at him, a word with him if possible. She got up and hobbled actively down to the shore; but Robert's haste had carried him already beyond earshot.
Following the path up from the lake-shore, Robert crossed the cow-pasture and climbed the bars back of the barn. Here he was met and challenged by Keep, the mastiff, who, with the discernment of a well-bred dog, appreciated Robert's good clothes, nosed his hand cordially, and let him pass without protest. Keep knew a gentleman at a glance, and was convinced that good manners meant good morals. He had no fear of Robert setting fire to the barn.