ely she is the most unfortunate girl alive? A sense of
injustice bring the tears into her eyes, and blots out the slowly
widening landscape from her view.

"How happy some o'er other some can be!"

Her thoughts run to Barbara and Monkton. They are happy in spite of many
frowns from fortune. They are poor--as society counts poverty--but the
want of money is not a cardinal evil. They love each other; and the
children are things to be loved as well--darling children! well grown,
and strong, and healthy, though terrible little Turks at times--God
bless them! Oh! that she could count herself as blessed as Barbara,
whose greatest trouble is to deny herself this and that, to be able to
pay for the other thing. No! to be poor is not to be unhappy. "Our
happiness in this world," says a writer, "depends on the affections we
are able to inspire." Truly she--Joyce--has not been successful in her
quest. For if he had loved her, would he ever have doubted her? "Perfect
love," says the oldest, grandest testimony of all, "casteth out fear."
And he had feared. Sitting here in the dawning daylight, the tears ran
softly down her cheeks.

It is a strange thing, but true, that never once during this whole
night's dreary vigil do her thoughts once turn to Beauclerk.

CHAPTER XXX.

"Oh, there's stony a leaf in Atholl wood,
And mony a bird in its breast,
And mony a pain may the heart sustain
Ere it sab itsel' to rest."

Barbara meets her on the threshold and draws her with loving arms into
the dining-room.

"I knew you would be here at this hour. Lady Baltimore wrote me word
about it. And I have sent the chicks away to play in the garden, as I
thought you would like to have a comfortable chat just at first."

"Lady Baltimore wrote?"

"Yes, dear. Just to say you were distressed about that unfortunate
affair--that drive, you know--and that you felt you wanted to come back
to me. I was glad you wanted that, darling."

"You are not angry with me, Barbara?" asks the girl, loosening her
sister's arms the better to see her face.

"Angry! No, how could I be angry?" says Mrs. Monkton, the more
vehemently in that she knows she _had_ been very angry just at first.
"It was the merest chance. It might have happened to anybody. One can't
control storms!"

"No--that's what Mrs. Connolly said, only she called it 'the ilimints,'"
says Joyce, with quite a little ghost of a smile.

"Well, now you are home again, and