Thereupon little Bab burst into tears, dreading that her good wish for Richard should be granted otherwise than she meant it. She did hope to be a better woman before it was too late.

“Come, come, child! None of that! I don’t like it. I don’t want to cry on top of my rage. What is the man? Who is he? What does the woman know about him?”

At once Barbara began and told her mother the whole story of Richard and herself. The mother listened. Old days and the memory of a lover, not high in the social scale, whom she had to give up to marry Mr. Wylder, came back upon her, and her heart went with her daughter’s before she knew what it was about. Her daughter’s love and her own seemed to mingle in one dusky shine, as if the daughter had inherited the mother’s experience. The heart of the mother would not have her child, like herself, gather only weed-flowers of sorrow among the roses in the garden of love. She had learned this much, that the things the world prizes are of little good to still the heart of a woman. But when Barbara told her that this same Richard, the bookbinder, was the natural son of sir Wilton, she started to her feet, crying:

“Then the natural bookbinder shall have her, and my lady’s fool may go to the devil! You shall have my money, Bab, anyhow.”

“But mama dear,” said Barbara, “what will papa say?”

“Poof!” returned her mother. “I’ve known him too long to care what he says!”

“I don’t want to offend him,” returned Barbara.

“Don’t mention him again, child, or I’ll turn him loose on your bookbinder. Am I to put my own daughter through the same torture I had to suffer by marrying him! God forbid! When you’re happy with your husband, perhaps you’ll think of me sometimes and say, ‘My mother did it! She wasn’t a good woman, but she loved her Bab!’”

A passionate embrace followed. Barbara left the room with a happy heart, and went—not to brood on her love, but to her brother’s room, where she had heard his feeble voice calling her. Upon him her gladness overflowed.

— Forty-Six —

Miss Brown

That same evening Barbara rode to the smithy in hopes of hearing some news of Richard from his grandfather. The old man was busy at the anvil when he heard Miss Brown’s hoofs on the road. He dropped his hammer, flung the tongs on the forge, and, leaving the iron to cool on the anvil, went to meet her.

“How are you, grandfather?” said Barbara, with unconscious use of the appellation.

Simon was well pleased to be called grandfather, but too well bred to show his pleasure.

“As well as hard work can help me to be. How are you yourself, my pretty little lady?” returned Simon.

“As well as nothing to do—except nursing poor Mark—will let me be,” she answered. “Please, can you tell me anything about Richard yet?”