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.

“Mother! Mother dear!” she pleaded.

The mother took her by the shoulders, thinking she would fling her across the room. But she was not so strong as she had been, and found the little one hard as nails—she could not move her an inch.

“Get out of my way!” she cried. “I will kill him.”

“Mama, listen! It happened a month ago! I said nothing—for love’s sake!”

“Love! Dare you tell me you love that wretch of a father of yours! I will kill you if you say you love him!”

Barbara threw her arms round her mother’s neck.

“Listen, mama,” she said, “I do love him a little, but it wasn’t for love of him I held my tongue.”