e, significantly.

He alluded to the night when Barbara was in the grove of trees with her
unfortunate brother, and Mr. Hare was on the point, unconsciously,
of locking her out. She had given Mr. Carlyle the history, but its
recollection now called up a smart pain, and a change passed over her
face.

"Oh! Don't, Archibald," she uttered, in the impulse of the moment;
"don't recall it."

Isabel wondered.

"Can Peter take me?" continued Barbara.

"I had better take you," said Mr. Carlyle. "It is late."

Barbara's heart beat at the words; beat as she put her things on--as she
said good-night to Lady Isabel and Miss Carlyle; it beat to throbbing as
she went out with him, and took his arm. All just as it used to be--only
now that he was the husband of another. Only!

It was a warm, lovely June night, not moonlight, but bright with its
summer twilight. They went down the park into the road, which they
crossed, and soon came to a stile. From that stile there led a path
through the fields which would pass the back of Justice Hare's. Barbara
stopped at it.

"Would you choose the field way to-night, Barbara? The grass will be
damp, and this is the longest way."

"But we shall escape the dust of the road."

"Oh, very well, if you prefer it. It will not make three minutes'
difference."

"He is very anxious to get home to _her_!" mentally exclaimed Barbara.
"I shall fly out upon him, presently, or my heart will burst."

Mr. Carlyle crossed the stile, helped over Barbara, and then gave her
his arm again. He had taken her parasol, as he had taken it the last
night they had walked together--an elegant little parasol, this, of
blue silk and white lace, and he did not switch the hedges with it. That
night was present to Barbara now, with all its words and its delusive
hopes; terribly present to her was their bitter ending.

There are women of warm, impulsive temperaments who can scarcely help,
in certain moments of highly wrought excitement, over-stepping the
bounds of nature and decorum, and giving the reins to temper, tongue,
and imagination--making a scene, in short. Barbara had been working
herself into this state during the whole evening. The affection of
Isabel for her husband, her voice, his caresses--seen through the half
open doors--had maddened her. She felt it impossible to restrain her
excitement.

Mr. Carlyle walked on, utterly unconscious that a storm was brewing.
More than that, he was unconscious of havi