A last visit to the Academy had been planned for the afternoon.  They walked thither, as they often loved to do, through the narrow, still streets and across the little foot-bridges.  Mrs. Douglas, with Margery and Miss Sherman, arrived first, and, after a few minutes’ delay, Bettina and Malcom appeared.

“Uncle Robert has taken a gondola to the banker’s to get our letters, mother,” said Malcom, in such a peculiar voice that his mother gave him a quick look of interrogation.

“Where is your sister?” asked Miss Sherman, sharply, turning to Bettina as Mrs. Douglas passed into an adjoining room.

“Mr. Sumner asked her to help him get the letters,” replied she, demurely.

Miss Sherman reddened, and Malcom’s eyes danced.

“How strange!” said Margery, innocently.

The pictures were, unfortunately, of secondary interest to all the group save Margery; and, as Mr. Sumner and Barbara did not return, they, before very long, declared themselves tired, and returned home.  The truth was, each one was longing for private thought.

Meanwhile Barbara and Mr. Sumner were on the Grand Canal.  The sun shone brightly, and Mr. Sumner drew the curtains a little closer together to shield Barbara’s face and, perhaps, his own.  The gondolier rowed slowly.  “Where to?” he had asked, and was answered only by a gesture to go on.  So on they floated.

Barbara had obeyed without thought Mr. Sumner’s sudden request to accompany him.  But no sooner had they stepped into the gondola than she wished, oh, so earnestly! that she had made some excuse.

As Mr. Sumner did not speak, she tried to make some commonplace remark, but her voice would not reach her lips; so she sat, flushed and wondering, timid and silent.

At last he spoke, gravely and tenderly, of his early life, when she, a little girl, had known him; of his love and hope; of his sorrow and the years of lonely work in foreign lands; of his sister’s coming; of his meeting with them all, and of how much they had brought into his life.  But, as he looked up, he could not wait to finish the story as he had planned.  He saw the sweet, flushed face so near him, the downcast eyes, the little hand that tried to keep from trembling but could not, and his voice grew sharp with longing:—­

“Barbara! oh, little Barbara! you have made me love you as I never have dreamed of love.  Can you love me a little, Barbara?  Will you be my wife?” And he held out his hands, but dared not touch her.

Would she never answer?  Would she never lift the eyelids that seemed to droop more and more closely upon the crimson cheeks?  Had he frightened her?  Was she only so sorry for him?  Was Betty mistaken, after all?

But when, with a voice already quivering with apprehension, he again spoke her name, what a revelation!

With head thrown back and with smiling, though quivering, lips, Barbara looked at him, her eyes glowing with the unutterable tenderness he had sometimes dreamed of.  She did not utter a word, but there was no need.  The whole flood of her love, so long repressed, spoke straight to his heart.