this explanation with a silent shrug of the
shoulders. Such a deed could scarcely be otherwise regarded by the
priest, but Barbara's disregard of his first gift offended him far more
than the excellent disposition evinced by the hasty act pleased him. She
had flung the first tangible token of his love into the insatiable
jaws of a worthless profligate, like a copper coin thrown as alms to a
beggar. It grieved the soul of the economical manager and lover of rare
works of art to have this ancient and also very valuable family heirloom
broken to pieces. Malfalconnet would not fail to utter some biting jest
when he heard that Charles must now, as it were, purchase this costly
ornament of himself. He would have forgiven Barbara everything else more
easily than this mad casting away of a really royal gift.

Expressing his indignation to the almoner without reserve, he closed the
interview with him. When Charles was again alone he tried to rise, in
order, while pacing up and down the room, to examine his resolution once
more. But his aching foot prevented this plan and, groaning aloud, he
sank back into his arm-chair.

His heart had not been so sore for a long time, and it was Barbara's
fault. Yet he longed for her. If she had laid her delicate white hand
upon his brow, he said to himself, or had he been permitted to listen to
even one of her deeply felt religious songs, it would have cheered
his soul and even alleviated his physical suffering. Several times he
stretched his hand toward the bell to send for her; but she had offended
him so deeply that he must at least let her feel how gravely she had
erred, and that the lion could not be irritated unpunished, so he
conquered himself and remained alone. The sense of offended majesty
strengthened his power of resisting the longing for her.

Indignant with himself, he again drew the maps toward him. But like
a cloth fluttering up and down between a picture and the beholder,
memories of Barbara forced themselves between him and the plans over
which he was bending.

This could not continue!

Perhaps, after all, her singing was the only thing which could restore
his lost composure. He longed for it even more ardently than for her
face. If he sent for her, he could show her by his manner what fruit her
transgressions had borne. The rest would follow as a matter of course.
Now every fibre of his being yearned for the melody of her voice.

Obeying a hasty resolution, he rang the