Barbara entered the room, wholly unsuspicious of the plots against her liberty.
"The carriage will soon be at the door," said her mother. "Go and get ready." And after a whispered hint from Mr. Glide, she added, "Put on your pearl silk, Barbara. We shall have to call on certain persons of distinction."
Barbara was soon ready. They all three entered the carriage, and after a drive of about a mile, it stopped before a large and elegant house.
"Our father confessor lives in style," whispered Mrs. Dinwiddie.
"Yes," returned Glide; "one of his wealthy neophytes gives him a home here. If you will wait in this little basement room, Madam, I will conduct your daughter up to his library."
"Go with Mr. Glide, Barbara," said Mrs. Dinwiddie.
Supposing it was merely one of the mysterious forms of business, little Barbara at once took the gentleman's proffered arm and ascended the stairs with him.
Ten minutes,—twenty,—thirty,—Mrs. Dinwiddie waited, and nobody came. She looked at the furniture, the carpets, the paintings, till she had exhausted the curiosities of the apartment. Suddenly there was a sound of music from above,—not sacred music,—it sounded very much like the waltz from "Gustavus." What could it all mean?
At last Mr. Glide made his appearance.
"Now, Madam, 't is all arranged," said he. "I regret to say that we had to use the most stringent measures for reducing your daughter to terms. But she is so bound at last that she can have little hope of regaining her freedom."