“You insolent hussy! You won’t like it when you find it done!”

“It will be the same as if Mark had lived.”

“It’s that cursed money of your mother’s that makes you impudent!”

“If you could leave me penniless, papa, it would make no difference. A woman that can shoe her own horse—”

“Shoe her own horse!” cried her father.

“Yes, papa! You couldn’t! And I made two of her shoes the last time! Wouldn’t any woman that can do that, wouldn’t she—to save herself from shame and disgust—wouldn’t she take a place as a housemaid or shop girl rather than marry the man she didn’t love?”

Mr. Wylder saw he had gone too far.

“You know more than is good!” he said. “But don’t you mistake—your mother’s money is settled on you, but your father is your trustee! Take care how far you push him!”

“My father is a gentleman!” rejoined Barbara—not so near the truth as she believed.

“Take you care how you push a gentleman,” rejoined her father.

“Not to love is not to marry—not if the man was a prince!” persisted Barbara.

She went to her mother’s room, but said nothing of what had passed. She would not heat those ovens of wrath, the bosoms of her parents.

The next morning she ran to saddle Miss Brown. To her astonishment her friend was not in her box, nor in any stall in the stable, neither was anyone around to ask what had become of her. For the first time in her life, everybody had got out of Barbara’s way. In the harness-room, however, she came upon one of the stable-boys. He was in tears. When he saw her, he turned to run, looking as if he had had a piece of Miss Brown for breakfast, but she stopped him.

“Where is Miss Brown?” she said.

“Don’t know, miss.”

“Who knows then?”

“Perhaps master, miss.”

“What are you crying for?”

“Don’t know, miss.”

“That’s not true. Boys don’t cry without knowing why!”

“Well, miss, I ain’t sure what I’m crying for.”

“Speak out, man! Don’t be foolish.”

“Master give me a terrible cut, miss.”

“Did you deserve it?”

“Don’t know, miss.”

“You don’t seem to know anything this morning!”

“No, miss.”

“What did your master give you the cut for?”

“‘Cause I was crying.”

Here he burst into a restrained howl.

“What were you crying for?”

“Because Miss Brown was gone.”

“And you cried without knowing where she was gone?” said Barbara, turning almost sick with apprehension.

“Yes, miss,” affirmed the miserable boy.

“Is she dead?”

“No, miss, she ain’t dead. She’s sold!”

The words were not yet out of his mouth when he turned and bolted.

“That’s my gentleman-papa!” said Barbara to herself. Had she been any girl but Barbara, she would have cried like the boy. But not once from that moment did she allude to Miss Brown in the hearing of father or servant.

One day her mother asked her why she never rode anymore, and she told her. The wrath of her mother was like a tigress. She sprang to her feet and bounded to the door. But when she reached it, Barbara was between her and the handle.