little bewildered.

"Here's the whole parish saying that Barbara Hare can't be married,
that nobody will have her, on account of--of--of that cursed stain left
by----, I won't trust myself to name him, I should go too far. Now,
don't you think that's a pretty disgrace, a fine state of things?"

"But it is not true," said Barbara; "people do ask me."

"But what's the use of their asking when you say 'No?'" raved the
justice. "Is that the way to let the parish know that they ask? You are
an ungrateful, rebellious, self-willed daughter, and you'll never be
otherwise."

Barbara's tears flowed freely. The justice gave a dash at the bell
handle, to order the tea things carried away, and after their removal
the subject was renewed, together with Barbara's grief. That was the
worst of Justice Hare. Let him seize hold of a grievance, it was not
often he got upon a real one, and he kept on at it, like a blacksmith
hammering at his forge. In the midst of a stormy oration, tongue and
hands going together, Mr. Carlyle came in.

Not much altered; not much. A year and three-quarters had gone by and
they had served to silver his hair upon the temples. His manner, too,
would never again be careless and light as it once had been. He was the
same keen man of business, the same pleasant, intelligent companion; the
generality of people saw no change in him. Barbara rose to escape.

"No," said Justice Hare, planting himself between her and the door;
"that's the way you like to get out of my reach when I am talking to
you. You won't go; so sit down again. I'll tell you of your ill-conduct
before Mr. Carlyle, and see if that will shame you."

Barbara resumed her seat, a rush of crimson dyeing her cheeks. And
Mr. Carlyle looked inquiringly, seeming to ask an explanation of her
distress. The justice continued after his own fashion.

"You know, Carlyle, that horrible blow that fell upon us, that shameless
disgrace. Well, because the parish can't clack enough about the fact
itself, it must begin about Barbara, saying that the disgrace and
humiliation are reflected upon her, and that nobody will come near her
to ask her to be his wife. One would think, rather than lie under the
stigma and afford the parish room to talk, she'd marry the first man
that came, if it was the parish beadle--anybody else would. But now,
what are the facts? You'll stare when you know them. She has received a
bushel of good offers--a bushel of them," repeated the ju