remembrance of this conversation
pass away with to-night; let us still be to each other as friends--as
brother and sister. Believe me," he concluded, in a deeper tone, "the
confession has not lessened you in my estimation."

He made a movement as though he would get over the stile, but Barbara
did not stir; the tears were silently coursing down her pallid face. At
that moment there was an interruption.

"Is that you, Miss Barbara?"

Barbara started as if she had been shot. On the other side of the stile
stood Wilson, their upper maid. How long might she have been there? She
began to explain that Mr. Hare had sent Jasper out, and Mrs. Hare
had thought it better to wait no longer for the man's return, so had
dispatched her, Wilson, for Miss Barbara. Mr. Carlyle got over the
stile, and handed over Miss Barbara.

"You need not come any further now," she said to him in a low tone.

"I should see you home," was his reply, and he held out his arm. Barbara
took it.

They walked in silence. Arrived at the back gate of the grove, which
gave entrance to the kitchen garden, Wilson went forward. Mr. Carlyle
took both Barbara's hands in his.

"Good-night, Barbara. God bless you."

She had had time for reflection, and the excitement gone, she saw her
outbreak in all its shame and folly. Mr. Carlyle noticed how subdued and
white she looked.

"I think I have been mad," she groaned. "I must have been mad to say
what I did. Forget that it was uttered."

"I told you I would."

"You will not betray me to--to--your wife?" she panted.

"Barbara!"

"Thank you. Good-night."

But he still retained her hands. "In a short time, Barbara, I trust you
will find one more worthy to receive your love than I have been."

"Never!" she impulsively answered. "I do not love and forget so lightly.
In the years to come, in my old age, I shall still be nothing but
Barbara Hare."

Mr. Carlyle walked away in a fit of musing. The revelation had given him
pain, and possibly a little bit of flattery into the bargain, for he was
fond of pretty Barbara. Fond in his way--not hers--not with the sort
of fondness he felt for his wife. He asked his conscience whether his
manner to her in the past days had been a tinge warmer than we bestow
upon a sister, and he decided that it might have been, but he most
certainly never cast a suspicion to the mischief it was doing.

"I heartily hope she'll soon find somebody to her liking and forget me,"
was his co