When he came to the parsonage, which he had to pass on his way to Wylder Hall, Richard saw Mr. Wingfold through the open window of the drawing room, and turned to the door. The parson met him on the threshold.

“Welcome!” he said. “How did you get through your dinner?”

“Better than I expected,” replied Richard. “But this morning my stepmother asked me to promise not to call on the Wylders. They have been rude to her, she said.”

“Come inside. A friend of mine is here who will be glad to see you.”

The drawing room of the parsonage was low and dark, with its two windows close together on the same side. At the farther end stood a lady, seemingly occupied with an engraving on the wall. She did not move when they entered. Wingfold led Richard up to her, then turned without a word and left the room. Before either knew it, they were each in the other’s arms.

Barbara was sobbing. Richard thought he had dared too much and frightened her.

“I couldn’t help it!” Barbara said pleadingly.

“My life has been a longing for you!” said Richard.

“I have wanted you every day!” said Barbara, and again began to sob, but recovered herself with an effort.

“This will never do,” she cried, laughing through her tears. “I shall go crazy with having you! And I’ve not even seen you yet. Let me go, please. I want to look at you!”

Richard released her. She lifted a blushing, tearful face to his. But there was only joy, no pain in her tears—only delight, no shame in her blushes. One glance at the simple manly face before her, so full of the trust that induces trust, would have satisfied any true woman that she was as safe in his thoughts as in those of her mother. She gazed at him one long silent moment.

“How splendid you are!” she cried like a schoolgirl. “How good of you to grow like that! I wish I could see you on Miss Brown! What are you going to do, Richard?”

While she spoke Richard was gazing on the heavenly meadow of her face, and she for very necessity went on talking that she might not cry again.

“Are you going back to bookbinding?” she said.

“I don’t know. Sir Wilton—my father hasn’t told me yet what he wants me to do. Wasn’t it good of him to send me to Oxford?”

“You’ve been at Oxford all this time? I suppose he will make an officer of you now! Not that I care! I am content with whatever contents you!”

“I daresay he will hardly like me to live by my hands!” answered Richard, laughing. “He would count it a degradation for a gentleman!”

Barbara looked perplexed.

“You don’t mean to say he’s going to treat you just like one of the rest?” she exclaimed.