med as if he had received a revelation of what she
was to become. Every now and then as he saw her at home, the vision of
beautiful womanhood that had passed before him that evening would flash
into his mind, and the thought would come that sometime, somewhere, she
would find him into whose eyes could shine from her own that glorious
lovelight that he had for an instant surprised in them.

It had not seemed to him that he then saw the present Barbara, but that
which she was to be; and this future Barbara had no special connection
with the present one, save to awaken an interest that caused him to be
watchful of her. He had always recognized the charm of her
personality,--her frank enthusiasms, and her rich reserve; the wide
outlook and wise judgment of things unusual in one so young. But now he
began to observe other more intimate qualities,--the wealth of affection
bestowed on Bettina and the distant home; her tender regard to the
feelings of those about her; her quick resentment of any injustice; her
sturdy self-reliance; her sweet, unspoiled, unselfish nature; and her
longing for knowledge and all good gifts.

Then came Howard's death, and he realized how deeply she was moved. A
new look came often into her eyes, which he noted; a new tone into her
voice, which he heard. And yet he felt that the experience had not
touched the depths of her being.

While they were on the way from Florence to Rome he had rejoiced every
time he heard her voice ringing with the old merry tones, which showed
that she had for the moment forgotten all sad thoughts. When he was
ostensibly talking to all, he was often really talking only to Barbara,
and watching the expression of her eyes; and he always listened to catch
her first words when any new experience came to their party. He was
really fast getting into a dangerous condition, this young man nearly
thirty years old, but was as unconscious of it as a child.

At Perugia came the night struggle caused by Malcom's words; the dream,
and the morning meeting with Barbara. When his hand touched hers as he
put into them the roses, he felt again for an instant the electric
thrill that ran through him on the birthday night, when he met that
wonderful look in her eyes. It brought a feeling of possession, as if it
were the hand of his Margaret which he had touched,--Margaret, who was
so soon to have been his wife when death claimed her.

He tried to account for it. He was jealous for the belov