She went away, feeling suddenly alone in this exclusion from the cares that had absorbed her. There was no one on the piazza, which the moonlight printed with the shadows of the posts and the fanciful jigsaw work of the arches between them. She heard a step on the sandy walk round the corner, and waited wistfully.
It was Barlow who came in sight, as she knew at once, but she asked, “Mr. Barlow?”
“Yes’m,” said Barlow. “What can I do for you?”
“Nothing. I thought it might be Mr. Libby at first. Do you know where he is?”
“Well, I know where he ain’t,” said Barlow; and having ineffectually waited to be questioned further, he added, “He ain’t here, for one place. He’s gone back to Leyden. He had to take that horse back.”
“Oh!” she said.
“N’ I guess he’s goin’ to stay.”
“To stay? Where?”
“Well, there you’ve got me again. All I know is I’ve got to drive that mare of his’n over to-morrow, if I can git off, and next day if I can’t. Didn’t you know he was goin’?” asked Barlow, willing to recompense himself for the information he had given.
“Well!” he added sympathetically, at a little hesitation of hers: