Thus it went on day after day. Barbara lost something of her gloom; a new feeling, strange and inexpressibly sweet, brought back freshness to the life that had become almost a burden. Strong concentration was a vital portion of her nature; her thoughts fixed on one object, clung to it like ivy to a ruin; force itself could not tear them away. She asked herself again and again, what it was that centred the best portion of her nature around that youth—love! the blush of a haughty shame heated her cheek as the word presented itself, disturbing the august repose of her womanhood; besides, was not that heart closed and locked over one image? In all those years had she kept it sacred to turn the golden key at last, that a mere youth might jostle her idol in its sanctuary? Barbara laughed at the thought, she dashed it aside with a strong will, and contented herself with the remembrance that Norman had saved her life, and that gratitude with her was stronger than the love of most women. As for Norman, he never thought deeply in those years; he did not even attempt to understand his own feelings; he had saved the life of a woman whose presence and character filled him with the most profound admiration; her society had opened a new phase of existence to him; he did not quite know whether he had ceased to love Elizabeth or not; there was no room in his thoughts for the question. In his passionate nature the last sensation was sure to overwhelm all others, at least for the time.

Elizabeth was young, and had not learned that most important lesson of life, how to wait. To her this interest in another seemed an infatuation that must last forever. The bitterness and grief of this thought developed her character as a storm beats the flowers open. She was no longer the childish creature who unlocked the door that eventful morning for Norman Lovel; pride, resentment, a haughty power of self-torture, had rendered her womanly like the rest.

At first Barbara made some effort to win the confidence of this young girl, but the reserve with which her advances were met, soon chilled the wish into indifference. Thus the two fell wider and wider apart, stretching the thread of destiny which was sure to connect them at last, till it grew small as the film of a spider's web, but never broke.

One day Elizabeth went into the chamber where Lady Phipps sat alone, busy with some fine needle-work. She drew a stool, and seating herself upon it, laid her head in the lady's lap, and looked up in her face with a long, mournful gaze, that made that kind heart swell beneath its lace-kerchief.

"Why, Bessy child, what is it troubles you? these heavy, heavy eyes frighten me; is any thing the matter?"

"Oh, mother!" A warm color rushed into Lady Phipps's cheek at the word mother; it was the first time that most sacred term had ever been addressed to her.

"Well, my child—my child!" the kind woman repeated the word twice, with a sort of bashful pleasure, for they sprung to her lips like honey-dew.

"Oh, I wish so much that you were indeed my mother, for then I could tell you how—how very unhappy I am."

Lady Phipps bent down, removed the bright hair from the young girl's forehead, and kissed it tenderly.

"I am your mother, darling; she who is dead could scarcely have loved you more; now tell me what this trouble is."

Elizabeth turned her face, and buried it in the lady's robe.

"This lady—this strange woman—this Barbara Stafford—oh, send her away!"

"Why, what of her, my child?—remember she is our invited guest, a stranger, and—"

"I know—I know all that, but she is killing me—she drinks up my life like a vampire."

"Like a vampire—that pleasant, noble woman! Why Bessy child, you must be ill!"

"There, there! she has fascinated you like the rest; I have nobody left to care about or pity me; she has dried up every little spring of love that I used to drink at, and nobody sees it."

Elizabeth rose to her feet, flinging back the curls from her face with both hands, and casting glances of reproach upon the lady.

"You against me—you her friend—I hope you will never live to repent of it!"

"My dear child!"

"Don't call me that; I won't be the child of her friend! You have seen it all: how she came with her smiles and her bright words to steal the heart that belonged to me—you have seen them together half the time in the garden—in the portico—wherever the place was shady, and no one likely to intrude. Then you ask me with that kind voice, just as ever, 'Elizabeth, what is it troubles you?'"

Lady Phipps could not help smiling a little, for, occupied with her own pleasant duties, she had scarcely noticed the things of which Elizabeth complained, and this outbreak of jealousy amused, while it distressed her.

"Bessie, this is childish—it is absurd—of course Norman would do every thing in his power to amuse our guest—it is his duty; besides, you know he saved her life, and that counts for a great deal. We always like those we have served; nothing is more natural!"

"But we do not forget our old friends—we do not abandon all the world for them!"

"Nor has Lovel. Be patient till the novelty of this visit is worn away."

Lady Phipps held out her hand with a pleading tenderness that brought the wayward girl to her feet again.

"Foolish child!" she said, taking the fair young face between both hands and kissing it. "Foolish, foolish child!"

"You would not think it foolish if she had snared Sir William, and shut his heart against you!"

Lady Phipps dropped her hands slowly, and a strange look came to her eyes.

"You talk wildly, Elizabeth," she said, in a faltering voice.

"She came between him and heaven when he stood by the altar to be baptized. You did not see her; no one saw her, I think, except myself; but the cup of wine trembled in his hand, he grew pale as death. It was her shadow touching him as she passed up the aisle."

"I remember this. He did grow pale; I never saw my husband tremble before. But it was a solemn occasion, and Sir William felt it deeply. If this lady was present, I am sure he did not know it."

Lady Phipps spoke half to her own thoughts, half to the young girl, who lay sobbing in her lap; seized with regret for the words she had spoken the moment their effect became visible in the features and voice of her benefactress.

"I think no one saw her but myself and Norman," sobbed the girl. "She stood back from the altar, and did not come out with the rest. It seemed to me as if the house grew darker when she entered it. Oh, Lady Phipps—Lady Phipps, she is a terrible woman!"

The lady was too just and generous for these wild denunciations to influence her; but she grew watchful of her guest, and the distrust floating in her mind after this conversation deepened almost to dislike before her husband returned.

Keenly, almost as Elizabeth herself, she watched the intimacy which had sprung up between Barbara and the young secretary—an intimacy that seemed to have shut her out from the young man's regard almost as completely as it had separated him from Elizabeth.

Barbara Stafford was unconscious of the bitter feelings which her presence in that house had brought to life. Preoccupied by many painful thoughts, she gave herself no opportunities for observation. She did not remark that every hour threw her more and more into the society of the youth; and that her intercourse with the ladies contracted itself almost to the commonest courtesies of life.

One evening Barbara and Norman came up from the garden as usual, when the dusk had closed in upon them, and seated themselves in the front portico. Elizabeth was alone on one of the side seats when they came up. She had become used to this kind of solitude now, and rather sought it than otherwise. The young are always ready to convert sorrow into martyrdom.

She arose as they mounted the steps, and prepared to retreat into the house; but Barbara, whose old nature came out of its sadness whenever she had been long with Norman, spoke to her with that gentle empressement which few persons could resist.

"Do not leave us, Miss Parris," she said; "the evening is so lovely."

It was not the words; they were nothing; but there was a spell in Barbara Stafford's voice that even hatred could not resist. Elizabeth sat down, holding her breath.

Barbara carried a quantity of red roses in her hand, which Norman had gathered from a plant in the garden. Some memory was aroused by the flowers, which caused her to receive them with reluctance. She had held the roses for a moment, as if doubtful whether to place them on her bosom or dash them to the earth; but seeing that her hesitation annoyed the youth, carried them in her hand.

"You are young," she said, laying the roses in Elizabeth's lap; "flowers should whisper only cheerful things. To you they will speak of the present, and that should be gladsome. When they bring back the past to any one, it is always a pain. Young gentleman, hereafter you shall gather roses only for ladies who have hopes, like yourself!"

Elizabeth's first impulse was to take up the flowers from her lap, and throw them over the railing behind the seat; but the very sound of Barbara's voice drove this bitter pride from her heart. She allowed them to remain in her lap—thought of the blush roses he had given to her so little time before in that very place, and bent her head lower and lower that Norman might not see the tears which gathered in her eyes.

Barbara did not observe these tears, for Elizabeth sat so much in the shadow that the drooping outline of her figure alone was visible; but this was enough to enlist the quick sympathy of a woman who never looked unmoved on human sorrow. She sat down at once, and with a movement of tender interest took the little hand which had fallen among the flowers. Elizabeth started as if a serpent had crept out from among the roses and stung her palm. But scarcely had Barbara's fingers closed on hers, when she was seized with an irresistible impulse to return their clasp; and, in her sorrow, she leaned towards the woman, whom she had hated so bitterly a few moments before, as a sun-flower bends towards the sun.

Barbara felt the change, without understanding it. This gift of winning affection with a look, and of turning hate into love, was the great power of her character. She did not herself comprehend it, but the very magnetism of her presence was a prerogative richer than that of royalty, and as dangerous. Something kindred to this power existed in the youth; it was perhaps this subtle feeling that drew these persons into their present companionship.

When her heart was full of either joy or sadness, Barbara Stafford conversed beautifully. Her voice, as I have said, was full of tenderness and pathos; it came from the heart like a gush of spring water. She was depressed that evening; a little thing suffices to draw out the low tones of a nature like hers. Some angel had come out from the past, and troubled the waters of her soul; no matter upon what her conversation turned, the melody of these waters was certain to ripple through.

She dropped into conversation as they all sat together, pursuing no particular subject, but wandering from thought to thought, as a forest-bird touches this branch and then another, in its flight upward. Elizabeth leaned towards her, and listened; she saw the eyes of her young lover kindle under the influence of those words, till their brightness was visible in the gathering mist. She felt no resentment then. With her hand clasped in those caressing fingers, to love that woman seemed the most natural thing in life. She began even to join in the conversation, to call Lovel by his given name, and, for the time, turn back pleasantly to her old friendly ways. After a little, Norman came over from his place opposite the two ladies, and sat down on the other side of Elizabeth. His hand stole in among the roses, and Barbara left that of Elizabeth in its clasp. The heart of the young girl began to swell: she leaned her head upon Norman's shoulder, and wept silently.

A little time more, and those two young souls would have been reconciled again. A human heart-throb must sometimes unweave that chain of passing events which men call destiny; but here it was not to be.

The sound of horses' feet came along the road, slowly and heavily, as if the tired animals were returning from a long journey. The little group in front of Governor Phipps's house ceased speaking, and listened.

"It is—it is my father," cried Elizabeth, starting up; "see, they turn this way! It is the governor, and my father!"

Barbara Stafford gathered the shawl around her, shivering, till the teeth chattered in her head; but she sat still, with her features lost in the shadow of the porch; she seemed chilled through by the night air.

Norman Lovel descended the steps, and stood waiting for the horses to come up. A week before, Elizabeth would have sprung to his side; now, she stood alone a moment, then ran into the house to inform Lady Phipps of her husband's coming.

Barbara Stafford arose, looked through the gathering darkness, and saw three horsemen moving towards the house; they dismounted; one paused on the terrace, struggling against his own eager wishes. The other came hurriedly up the steps. The third, who was a servant, wheeled around, and rode towards the stables, leading the two weary horses by their bridles.

Barbara Stafford turned from the terrace as the man came up; the twilight clung around her like a veil; there she stood motionless—she had been searching in vain for the door latch. He came up the steps, saw a female figure in the gloom, and held out his arms.

"My wife!"

Barbara Stafford had no power to move; she felt his arms around her, she felt herself strained to his bosom, and his lips pressed upon hers. That instant the door opened, and Lady Phipps stood upon the threshold in a river of light, which flowed out from the hall.