As they went, neither said much. Both seemed to avoid the subject of their conversation as they came. They talked of poetry and fiction, and did not differ. Though Barbara there also had precious insights, happily she had no opinions.

When they reached a certain point, Richard drew back, and, from a coign of vantage, saw Barbara try the study-window and fail. He then followed her as she went round to the door, and, still covertly, saw her ring the bell. The door was opened with what seemed to him a portentous celerity, and she disappeared. He turned away into the park, and wandered about, revolving many things, till by slow gradations the sky's gray idea unfolded to a brilliant conviction, and, lo, there was the morning, not to be controverted! But he took care to let the house not only come awake, but come to its senses, before he sought admission. When it seemed well astir, he rang the bell; and when the door, after some delay, was opened, he went straight to the library, and was fairly at work by five o'clock.

He saw nothing of Barbara all day, or indeed of any of the family except Vixen, who looked in, made a face at him, and went away, leaving the door open. At eight o'clock he had his breakfast, and at nine he was again in the library; so that by lunch-time he had been seven of his eight hours at work, and by half-past two found himself free to go to his grandfather's and inquire after Alice.

On his way to the road through the park, he met Arthur Lestrange. Richard touched his hat as was his wont, and would have passed, but, with no friendly expression on his countenance, Arthur stopped.

“Where are you going, Tuke?” he said.

“I am going to my grandfather's, sir,” answered Richard.

“Excuse me, but your day's work is not over by many hours yet.”

Richard found his temper growing troublesome, but tried hard to keep it in hand.

“If you remember, sir,” he said, “our agreement mentioned no hour for beginning or leaving off work.”

“That is true, but you undertook to give me eight hours of your day!”

“Yes, sir. I was at work by five o'clock this morning, and have given you more than eight hours.”

“Hm!” said Arthur.

“I am quite as anxious,” pursued Richard, “to fulfill my engagement, as you can be to have it fulfilled.”

Arthur said nothing.

“Ask Thomas, who let me in this morning,” resumed Richard, “whether I was not at work in the library by five o'clock.”

It went a good deal against the grain with Richard to appeal to any witness for corroboration: he was proud of being a man of his word; but although not greatly anxious to keep his temporary position, he was anxious the compact should not be broken through anything he did or said.

“Let you in?” exclaimed Arthur; “—let you in before five o'clock in the morning? Then you were out all night!”

“I was.”

“That cannot be permitted.”

“I am surely right in believing that, when my work is over, I am my own master! I had something to do that must be done. My grandfather knows all I was about!”

“Oh, yes, I remember! old Simon Armour, the blacksmith!” returned Arthur. “But,” he went on, plainly softening a little, “you ought not to work for him while you are in my employment.”

“I know that, sir; and if I wanted, my grandfather would not let me. While my work is yours, it is all yours, sir.”

With that he turned, and left Arthur where he stood a little relieved, though now annoyed as well that a man in his employment should not have waited to be dismissed. Hastening to the smithy, he found his grandfather putting off his apron to go home for a cup of tea.

“Oh, there you are!” he said. “I thought we should be catching sight of you before long!”

“How's Alice, grandfather? You might be sure I should want to know!”

“She's been asleep all day, the best thing for her!”

“I hope, grandfather,” said Richard, for Simon's tone troubled him a little, “you are not vexed with me! I assure you I had nothing to do with her coming down here—that I know of. You would not have had me leave her sitting there, out on that stone in the moonlight, all night long, a ghost before her time without a grave to go to? She would have been dead before the morning! She must have been! I am certain you would not have left her there!”

“God forbid, lad! If you thought me out of temper with you, it was a mistake. I confess the thing does bother me, but I'm not blaming you. You acted like a Christian.”

Richard hardly relished the mode of his grandfather's approbation. A man ought to do the right thing because he was a man, not because he was something else than a man! He had yet to learn that a man and a Christian are precisely and entirely the same thing; that a being who is not a Christian is not a man. I perfectly know how absurd this must seem to many, but such do not see what I see. No one, however strong he may feel his obligations, will ever be man enough to fulfill them except he be a Christian—that is, one who, like Christ, cares first for the will of the Father. One who thinks he can meet his obligations now, can have no idea what is required of him in virtue of his being what he is—no idea of what his own nature requires of him. So much is required that nothing more could be required. Let him ask himself whether he is doing what he requires of himself. If he answer, “I can do it without Christianity anyway,” I reply, “Do it; try to do it, and I know where the honest endeavour will bring you. Don't try to do it, and you are not man enough to be worth reasoning with.”

Simon and his grandson had not yet turned the corner, when Richard heard a snort he knew: there, sure enough, stood Miss Brown, hitched to the garden-paling, peaceable but impatient.

“Miss Wylder here!” said Richard.

“Yes, lad! She's been here an hour and more. Jessie came and told me, but I knew it: I heard the mare, and knew the sound of my own shoes on her!—I doubt if she'll stand it much longer though!” he added, as she pawed the road. “Well, she's a fine creature!”

“Yes, she's a good mare!”

“I don't mean the mare! I mean the mistress!”

“Miss Wylder is just noble!” said Richard. “But I'm afraid she got into trouble last night!”

“It don't sound much like it!” returned the old man, as Barbara's musical, bird-like laugh came from the cottage. “She ain't breaking her heart!—Alice, as you call her, must be doing well, or missie wouldn't be laughing like that!”

As they entered, Barbara came gliding down the perpendicular stair in front of them, her face yet radiant with the shadow of the laugh they had heard.

“Good morning, Mr. Armour!” she said. “—I did not expect to see you so soon again, Mr. Tuke. Will you put me up!”

Richard released Miss Brown, got her into position, and gave his hand to Barbara's foot, as he had seen Mr. Lestrange do. But lifting, he nearly threw her over Miss Brown's back. She burst into her lovely laugh, clutched at a pommel, and held fast.

“I'm not quite ready to go to heaven all at once!” she said.

“I thought you were!” answered Richard. “But indeed I beg your pardon! I might have known how light you must be!”

“I am very heavy for my size!”

“May I walk a little way alongside of you, miss?”

“You have a right; I have offered you my company more than once,” answered Barbara.

They walked a little way in silence.

“Why is there no way to the heaven you believe in, but the terrible gate of death?” asked Richard at length. “If a God of love, as you say your God is, made the world, and could not—for want of room, I suppose—let his creatures live on in it, he would surely have thought of some better way out of it than such a ghastly one!”

Perhaps the most surprising thing about Barbara was her readiness. Very seldom had one to wait for her answer.

“This morning,” she said, “for the first time with me on her back at least, Miss Brown refused a jump—and I grant the place looked ugly! But I gave her a little sharp persuasion, and she took it beautifully, coming away as proud of herself as possible.—If there be a God, he must know as much better than you and I, as I know better than Miss Brown. One who never did anything we couldn't understand, couldn't be God. How else could he make things?”

“Yes, if they are made!”

“If I were you, I would be quite sure first, before I said they were not. You won't assert anything you are not sure of; don't deny anything either. Good-bye.—Go, Miss Brown!”

She was more peremptory than usual, but he liked it—rather. He felt she had some right to speak to him so: positive as he had hitherto been, he was not really sure of anything!

The fact was, Barbara had been irritated that morning, and had got over the irritation, but not quite over the excitement of it. She thought Miss Brown should never again set hoof within the gates of Mortgrange.

After breakfast, lady Ann had sent for her to her dressing-room, and Barbara had gone, prepared to hear of something to her disadvantage. The same woman who had been so uncivil to Richard, had watched and seen them go out together. She fastened the library window behind them, and went and told lady Ann, who requested her to mind her own business.

When Barbara rang the bell, not caring much—for a night in the park was of little consequence to her—the door was immediately opened, but only a little way, by some one without a light, whose face or even person she could not distinguish, for the door was quite in shadow. It closed again, and she was left darkling, to find her way to her room as best she might. She stood for a moment.

“Who is it?” she said.

No one answered. She heard neither footstep nor sound of garments. Carefully feeling her way, she got to the foot of the great stair, and in another minute was in her room.

When Barbara entered lady Ann's dressing-room, she greeted her with less than her usual frigidity.

“Good morning, my love! You were late last night!” she said.

“I thought I was rather early,” answered Barbara, laughing.

“May I ask where you were?” said her ladyship, with her habitual composure.

“About a mile and a half from here, at that little cottage in Burrow-lane.”

“How did you come to be there—and for so long? You were hours away!”

Even lady Ann could not prevent a little surprise in her tone as she said the words.

“Mr. Tuke came and told me——”

“I beg your pardon, but do I know Mr. Tuke?”

“The bookbinder, at work in the library.”

“Wouldn't your mother be rather astonished at your having secrets with a working-man?”

“Secrets, lady Ann!” exclaimed Barbara. “Your ladyship forgets herself!”

Lady Ann looked up with a languid stare in the fresh young face, rosy with anger.

“Was I not in the act,” pursued the girl, “of telling you all about it? You dare accuse me of such a thing! I only wish you would carry that tale of me to my mother!”

“I am not accustomed to be addressed in this style, Barbara!” drawled lady Ann, without either raising or quickening her voice.

“Then it is time you began, if you are accustomed to speak to girls as you have just spoken to me! I am not accustomed to be told that I have a secret with any man—or woman either! I don't know which I should like worse! I have no secrets. I hate them.”

“Compose yourself, my child. You need not be afraid of me!” said lady Ann. “I am not your enemy.”

She thought Barbara's anger came from fear, for she regarded herself as a formidable person. But for victory she rested mainly on her imperturbability.

“Look me in the face, lady Ann, and tell yourself whether I am afraid of you!” answered Barbara, the very soul of indignation flashing in her eyes. “I fear no enemy.”

Lady Ann found she had a new sort of creature to deal with.

“That I am your friend, you will not doubt when I tell you it was I who let you in last night! I did not wish your absence or the hour of your return to be known. My visitors must not be remarked upon by my servants!”

“Then why did you not speak to me?”

“I wished to give you a lesson.”

“You thought to frighten me, as if I were a doughy, half-baked English girl! Allow me to ask how you were aware I was out.”

Lady Ann was not ready with her answer. She wanted to establish a protective claim on the girl—to have a secret with, and so a hold upon her.

“If the servants do not know,” Barbara went on, “would you mind saying how your ladyship came to know? Have the servants up, and I will tell the whole thing before them all—and prove what I say too.”

“Calm yourself, Miss Wylder. You will scarcely do yourself justice in English society, if you give way to such temper. As you wish the whole house to know what you were about, pray begin with me, and explain the thing to me.”

“Mr. Tuke told me he had found a young woman almost dead with hunger and cold by the way-side, and carried her to a cottage. I came to you, as you well remember, and begged a little brandy. Then I went to the larder, and got some soup. She would certainly have been dead before the morning, if we had not taken them to her.”

“Why did you not tell me what you wanted the brandy for?”

“Because you would have tried to prevent me from going.”

“Of course I should have had the poor creature attended to!—I confess I should have sent a more suitable person.”

“I thought myself the most suitable person in the house.”

“Why?”

“Because the thing came to me to get done, and I had to go; and because I knew I should be kinder to her than any one you could send. I know too well what servants are, to trust them with the poor!”

“You may be far too kind to such people!”

“Yes, if one hasn't common sense. But this girl you couldn't be too kind to.”

“It is just as I feared: she has taken you in quite! Those tramps are all the same!”

“The same as other people—yes; that is, as different from each other as your ladyship and I.”

Lady Ann found Barbara too much for her, and changed her attack.

“But how came you to be so long? As you have just said, Burrow-lane can't be more than a mile and a half from here!”

“We could not leave her at the cottage; it was not a fit place for her. Mr. Tuke had to go to his grandfather's—four miles—and I had to stay with her till he came back. Old Simon came himself in his spring-cart, and took her away.”

“Was there no woman at the cottage?”

“Yes, but worn out with work and children. Her night's rest was of more consequence to her than ten nights' waking would be to me.”

“Thank you, Barbara! I was certain I should not prove mistaken in you! But I hope such a necessity will not often occur.”

“I hope not; but when it does, I hope I may be at hand.”

“I was certain it was some mission of mercy that had led you into the danger. A girl in your position must beware of being peculiar, even in goodness. There are more important things in the world than a little suffering!”

“Yes; your duty to your neighbour is more important.”

“Not than your duty to yourself, Barbara!” said lady Ann, in such a gently severe tone of righteous reproof, that Barbara's furnace of a heart made the little pot that held her temper nearly boil over.

“Lady Ann,” she said, unconsciously drawing herself up to her full little height, “I am sorry I gave you the trouble of sitting up to open the door for me. That at least shall not happen again. Good morning.”

“There is nothing to be annoyed at, Barbara. I am quite pleased with what you have told me. I say only it was unwise of you not to let me know.”

“It may not have been wise for my own sake, but it was for the woman's.”

“There is no occasion to say more about the woman; I am quite satisfied with you, Barbara!” said lady Ann, looking up with an icy smile, her last Parthian arrow.

“But I am not satisfied with you, lady Ann,” rejoined Barbara. “I have submitted to be catechized because the thing took place while I was your guest; but if such a thing were to happen again, I should do just the same; therefore I have no right, understanding perfectly how much it would displease you, to remain your guest. I ought, perhaps, to have gone home instead of returning to you, but I thought that would be uncivil, and look as if I were ashamed. My mother would never have treated me as you have done! You may think her a strange woman, but her heart is as big as her head—much bigger when it is full!”

It was not right of Barbara to get so angry, and answer lady Ann so petulantly, for she knew her pretty well by this time, and yet was often her guest. That it was impossible for such a girl to feel respect for such a woman, if it accounts for her bearing to her, condemns the familiarity that gave occasion to that bearing. At the same time, but for lady Ann's superiority in age, Barbara would have spoken her mind with yet greater freedom. Her rank made no halo about her in Barbara's eyes.

Lady Ann took no more trouble to appease her: the foolish girl would, she judged, be ashamed of herself soon, and accept the favour she knew to be undeserved! Lady Ann understood Barbara no more than lady Ann understood the real woman underlying lady Ann. She was not afraid of losing Barbara, for she believed her parents could not but be strongly in favour of an alliance with her family. She knew nothing of the personal opposition between Mr. and Mrs. Wylder: she never opposed sir Wilton except it was worth her while to do so; and sir Wilton never opposed her at all—openly. It gave lady Ann no more pleasure to go against her husband, than to comply with his wishes; and she had anything but an adequate notion of the pleasure it gave sir Wilton to see any desire of hers frustrated.

Barbara went to the stable, where man and boy had always his service in his right hand ready for her—got Miss Brown saddled, and was away from Mortgrange before Richard, early as he had begun, was half-way through his morning's work.

She went to see Alice almost every day from that afternoon; and as no one could resist Barbara, Alice's reserve, buttressed and bastioned as it was with pain, soon began to yield before the live sympathy that assailed it. They became fast friends.