Arthur felt a shadow cross him—almost like fear. He had but driven Richard to his grandfather’s and perhaps made an enemy of him besides. And he could not get rid of the thought that what he had done to Richard was not quite the thing for a gentleman to do. His trouble was not that he had wronged Richard, but that he had wronged himself, had not acted like his ideal of himself. He did not think of what was right, but of what befitted a gentleman. Such a man is in danger of doing many things unbefitting a gentleman, for the measure of a gentleman is not a man’s ideal of himself.

His uneasiness grew as day after day went by and Barbara did not appear at Mortgrange. He was not aware that Richard saw no more of her than himself. He knew that he was at his grandfather’s—he had himself seen him at work at the anvil—but he did not know that the hope in which he lingered there was vain.

Richard waited there a week, but no Barbara came to the smithy. He could not endure the thought of going away without seeing her once more. He must at least once thank her for what she had done for him. And he must let her know why he had left Mortgrange.

Then he thought of the clergyman. He would go and say goodbye, and possibly from him he might hear something of her.

Wingfold caught sight of him approaching the house and opened the door to him. Taking him to his study, he asked him to sit down.

“I came,” said Richard, “to thank you for your kindness to me and to ask about Miss Wylder. Not having seen her for a long time, I was afraid she might be ill. I am going away.”

There was a tremor in Richard’s voice he was unaware of.

“I am sorry to say you are not likely to see Miss Wylder,” he answered. “Her mother is ill.”

“I hardly thought to see her, sir. Is her mother very ill?”

“Yes, very ill,” answered Wingfold.

“With anything infectious?”