It was about four in the morning—­the fire still burning—­when Mrs. Holabird went round upon the out-skirts of the groups of lookers-on, to find and gather together her own flock.  Rosamond and Ruth stood in a safe corner with the Haddens.  Where was Barbara?

Down against the close trunks of a cluster of linden-trees had been thrown cushions and carpets and some bundles of heavy curtains, and the like.  Coming up behind, Mrs. Holabird saw, sitting upon this heap, two persons.  She knew Barbara’s hat, with its white gull’s breast; but somebody had wrapped her up in a great crimson table-cover, with a bullion fringe.  Somebody was Harry Goldthwaite, sitting there beside her; Barbara, with only her head visible, was behaving, out here in this unconventional place and time, with a tranquillity and composure which of late had been apparently impossible to her in parlors.

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“What will Mrs. Marchbanks do with Mrs. Hobart after this, I wonder?” Mrs. Holabird heard Harry say.

“She’ll give her a sort of brevet,” replied Barbara.  “For gallant and meritorious services.  It will be, ’Our friend Mrs. Hobart; a near neighbor of ours; she was with us all that terrible night of the fire, you know.’  It will be a great honor; but it won’t be a full commission.”

Harry laughed.

“Queer things happen when you are with us,” said Barbara.  “First, there was the whirlwind, last year,—­and now the fire.”

“After the whirlwind and the fire—­” said Harry.

“I wasn’t thinking of the Old Testament,” interrupted Barbara.

“Came a still, small voice,” persisted Harry.  “If I’m wicked, Barbara, I can’t help it.  You put it into my head.”

“I don’t see any wickedness,” answered Barbara, quickly.  “That was the voice of the Lord.  I suppose it is always coming.”

“Then, Barbara—­”

Then Mrs. Holabird walked away again.

The next day—­that day, after our eleven o’clock breakfast—­Harry came back, and was at Westover all day long.

Barbara got up into mother’s room at evening, alone with her.  She brought a cricket, and came and sat down beside her, and put her cheek upon her knee.

“Mother,” she said, softly, “I don’t see but you’ll have to get me ready, and let me go.”

“My dear child!  When?  What do you mean?”

“Right off.  Harry is under orders, you know.  And they may hardly ever be so nice again.  And—­if we are going through the world together—­mightn’t we as well begin to go?”

“Why, Barbara, you take my breath away!  But then you always do!  What is it?”

“It’s the Katahdin, fitting out at New York to join the European squadron.  Commander Shapleigh is a great friend of Harry’s; his wife and daughter are in New York, going out, by Southampton steamer, when the frigate leaves, to meet him there.  They would take me, he says; and—­that’s what Harry wants, mother.  There’ll be a little while first,—­as much, perhaps, as we should ever have.”