Barbara's reply was interrupted by the entrance of old Anjy. The scene which had just transpired had been faithfully transferred to the memory of the listening and observant Nero, who had communicated it all to the party chiefly interested.
Mrs. Dinwiddie quailed a little as she met Anjy's glance; but Barbara rose and threw her arms about the faithful old creature's neck, and, bursting into tears, exclaimed,—
"Oh, Anjy! 't was the act of a devil! I hate him for it!"
"Mind what you say, Barbara!" said Mrs. Dinwiddie.
Barbara withdrew her arms, and, folding them, looked her mother straight in the face and said,—
"My father did not speak too harshly of it. 'T was a foul and cowardly murder."
"Oh!" cried Mrs. Dinwiddie, again threatening a relapse into hysterics.
"My dear, dear Anjy," said Barbara, her tears flowing afresh, "come up to my room, and I will read you your letter."
With a face tearless and inflexible, Anjy allowed herself to be led out of the dining-hall, and up stairs into Barbara's apartment. The two stayed there a couple of hours, heedless of every summons for them to come forth.