myself in thy debt."

Then as I glanced up I saw a face looking narrowly from far off in the
hall: I fear me that Barbara must inevitably have heard every word.
However, it was rather warmish weather, and as she came out to the porch
with her knitting in her hands, she looked as though she were grateful to
me; and there were wet rings about her eyes which made me sad to see, and
I remembered the time in the lane, a long while ago, when I had seen just
such rings and stains about her eyes. We spake not a word, and she sat
down on one side of me and her father on the other. As in another time,
friend Hicks put his handkerchief over his face to protect him from the
air--the flies not being come yet--and I scarcely hesitate to say that he
covered his left eye as well as his right. Then I am positive that the
silence grew irksome to me, for I knew not what to think of Barbara's
manner, nor what to say. So I arose and stood on the edge of the porch,
and looked far over the large unbroken landscape, as all early spring
landscapes are. I could not have been there many minutes before a soft
touch made me turn about, and Barbara was beside me, and the rings about
her eyes were wetter than ever.

"Barbara!" I said softly.

"Hush!" she whispered most gently, glancing toward her father, now balmily
sleeping. "Samuel Biddle, I must thank thee: thee knows what for, so I
need not repeat it. I thank thee, not as I would have thanked thee six
months ago, but as--"

"As what, Barbara?"

"As thy wife soon to be, Samuel Biddle."

I placed her hand in mine. "And thee is not mistaken?" I said.

"Nay, not mistaken now. I never knew thee till I understood that all men
are not like thee. I never knew thee till I most foolishly thought that a
few words from another man on even trivial subjects meant more than thy
silence of devotion. I learned my own mind in many ways, Samuel, and then
I learned thee; for I had thought thee was in a measure thrust upon me,
and only because I had not seen thee before father's approval of thee.
That other man's care of his wife--a care that kept her affliction from
any and all eyes--showed me what thee was even, and what thee was for me.
I cannot rightly say all that I would, but I can only say this--that I
never cared overly much for thee at first, Samuel Biddle; but Richard
Jordan has taught me one thing, which perhaps no other man in the world
could have done."

"And that is--?"

"What love is."

"B