ve, dark-eyed and bright complexioned, whose chestnut hair
was scarcely touched with grey. Notwithstanding all the troubles and
hardships that she had endured, her countenance was serene and even
happy, for she was blessed with a good heart, a lively faith in
Providence, and a well-regulated mind. Looking at her, it was easy to
see whence Barbara and her other daughters inherited their beauty and
air of breeding.

"How are you, Anthony?" she went on, one eye still fixed upon the burnt
beef. "It is good of you to come, though you are late, which I suppose
is why the girl has burnt the meat."

"Not a bit," called out one of the children, it was Janey, "it is very
good of us to have him when there's only one duck. Anthony, you mustn't
eat duck, as we don't often get one and you have hundreds."

"Not I, dear, I hate ducks," he relied automatically, for his eyes were
seeking the face of Barbara.

Barbara was seated in the wooden armchair with a cushion on it, near the
fire of driftwood, advantages that were accorded to her in honour of
her still being an invalid. Even to a stranger she would have looked
extraordinarily sweet with her large and rather plaintive violet eyes
over which the long black lashes curved, her waving chestnut hair parted
in the middle and growing somewhat low upon her forehead, her tall
figure, very thin just now, and her lovely shell-like complexion
heightened by a blush.

To Anthony she seemed a very angel, an angel returned from the shores
of death for his adoration and delight. Oh! if things had gone the other
way--if there had been no sweet Barbara seated in that wooden chair!
The thought gripped his heart with a hand of ice; he felt as he had felt
when he looked at the window-place from the crest of Gunter's Hill. But
she _had_ come back, and he was sure that they were each other's for
life. And yet, and yet, life must end one day and then, what? Once more
that hand of ice dragged at his heart strings.

In a moment it was all over and Mr. Walrond was speaking.

"Why don't you bid Barbara good-day, Anthony?" he asked. "Don't you
think she looks well, considering? We do, better than you, in fact," he
added, glancing at his face, which had suddenly grown pale, almost grey.

"He's going to give Barbara the violets and doesn't know how to do it,"
piped the irrepressible Janey. "Anthony, why don't you ever bring _us_
violets, even when we have the whooping cough?"

"Because the smell of them