got your telegram," said Barbara.

"When?" he asked anxiously.

She broke into a sudden smile. "Oh," she said, "about fourteen hundred
years ago."

"Barbara," he said, "that's a miracle! If you'd said thirteen hundred or
fifteen hundred it would have been guessing, but fourteen hundred is the
exact time that has passed since I telegraphed."

"Have you had breakfast?"

"No," he said, "I didn't have time."

They strolled through the familiar house, talking nonsense. They were
almost too glad to see each other, for there was now no longer any
question of Barbara making up her mind. It had been made up for her, and
Wilmot knew this somehow without being told. But when had the definite
change come?--that change which made her caring for Wilmot different
from all her other carings? She could not say.

He had dreaded telling her about Harry West's death. And when he had
done so he watched her grave face with appealing eyes. Presently she
smiled a little.

"I'm _not_ heartless," she said, "but I'm going to keep on forgetting
all the times when there was anybody but you. I expect most girls do a
lot of shilly-shallying before they are sure of themselves."

"And you are really sure of yourself?"

"Yes, Wilmot, if I'm sure of you."

"The first thing," he said, "is to look into these mining properties
we've fallen heir to. West wasn't the kind of man to be easily fooled;
at the same time I myself have learned something about mines."

"For instance?" Her face was very mischievous.

"Well," he said, "for instance, I have learned that there are mines
_and_ mines. And you know, Barbs dear, I'm not eligible yet. I owe
money, I haven't made good at anything, and I've got to--first of all.
Haven't I?"

"Are you going to sit right there and tell me that we're not to be
married until you've paid your debts and made a fortune? Where do I come
in? What life have I to lead except yours? If you are in debt, so am I.
If you've got to dig holes in the ground, so have I. Whatever has got to
be done, we've got to do it together. So much is clear. Of course it
would be _easier_ for you!"

A little later he asked her what she was going to do with her head of
Blizzard.

"Nothing," she said. "If it is good enough, it will survive these
troubled times. If it isn't, somebody will break it up."

"Are you through with art?"

"What have I to do with art?" she said. "I'm in love. I used to think
that women ought to have professions a