She did not know that in general the working man is as foolish and unfit as the rich man, that he only wants to be rich, and trample on his own past. It is the poor man gives the rich man his hold on him by cherishing the same feelings as the rich man concerning riches, by fancying the rich man a greater man, and longing to be rich like him. A man that can do things is greater than any man who only has things.

“At any rate,” concluded Barbara to herself, “I like this working man better than that gentleman.”

The clock struck the hour that ended his workday. Instead of sitting down to read, Richard set out for the smithy. It was only a week since he had last seen his grandfather, but he wanted motion and desired a human face that truly belonged to him. It was rather dark when he arrived, but the old man had not yet stopped work. The sparks were flying wild about his gray head as Richard drew near.

“Can I help you, grandfather?” he said.

“No, no, lad, your hands are too soft by this time.”

“But my day’s work being over, why shouldn’t I help you get yours over?”

“Your strength as well as your time belongs to the man who hires you. If you weary yourself helping me, you will not do as good work for him tomorrow. Do you see sense in that?”

“Indeed, I do! You are quite right.”

After an hour’s talk and a cup of tea at the cottage, Richard set out on his return walk. When he had gotten only a little way into the park, a little way off on the grass a small figure glided swiftly toward him through the dusk. It was Barbara.

“I have been watching for you for so long!” she said. “They told me you had gone out and I thought you might come home this way.”

“I wish I had known. I wouldn’t have kept you waiting so long,” said Richard.

“I want the rest of the poem,” she said. “It was rude of Arthur to interrupt us as he did.”

The young bookbinder was perplexed. He did not want the servants to learn they were in the park together. Yet he did not want to hint at imprudence to her or she would be insulted. He must take care without seeming to do so. If they walked slowly they would be able to finish the poem just as they reached the house. There he would leave her and return by the lodge-gate.

“Where did we leave off?” he said.

His brief silence had seemed to Barbara but a moment spent in trying to recall.

She told him, and he continued in the same fashion as he had in the library.