ng something that he sought, he was drawn far afield and caught
in a tempest of rain and wind, through which he must struggle home.
Barbara who, growing anxious, had gone to seek him, found him leaning
against an oak unable to speak, with a little stream of blood trickling
from the corner of his mouth. Indeed, it was the dog, which seemed
distressed, that discovered her and led her to him.

This was Anthony's last outing, but he lived till Christmas Eve, his
son's eighth birthday. That morning the boy was brought into his room
to receive some present that his father had procured for him, and
warned that he must be very quiet. Quiet, however, he would not be; his
tumultuous health and strength seemed to forbid it. He racketed about
the room, teasing the spaniel which lay by the side of the bed, until
the patient beast growled at him and even bit, or pretended to bite
him. Thereon he set up such a yell of pain, or anger, or both, that his
father struggled from the bed to see what was the matter, and so brought
on the haemorrhage which caused his death.

"I am afraid you will have trouble with that child, Barbara," he gasped
shortly before the end. "He seems to be different from either of us; but
he is our son, and I know that you will do your best for him. I leave
him in your keeping. Good night, dearest, I want to go to sleep."

Then he went to sleep, and Barbara's heart broke.

CHAPTER VII

BARBARA'S SIN

The months following Anthony's death were to Barbara as a bad dream.
Like one in a dream she saw that open, wintry grave beneath the tall
church tower about whose battlements the wind-blown rooks wheeled on
their homeward way. She noted a little yellow aconite that had opened
its bloom prematurely in the shadow of the wall, and the sight of it
brought her some kind of comfort. He had loved aconites and planted many
of them, though because of his winter absences years had gone by since
he had seen one with his eyes, at any rate in England. That this flower
among them all should bloom on that day and in that place seemed to her
a message and a consolation, the only one that she could find.

His sad office over, her father accompanied her home, pouring into her
ear the words of faith and hope that he was accustomed to use to those
broken by bereavement, and with him came her mother. But soon she
thanked them gently and bade them leave her to herself. Then they
brought her son to her, thinking that the sight