As Mrs. Douglas lifted her eyes and looked full into the delicate, almost transparent face so swept by emotion, and met the deathless fire of Howard’s brilliant eyes, she felt as never before the frailty of his physical life, and wondered at the mighty force of his passionate will.  The conviction came that she was grappling with no slight feeling, but with that which really might mean life or death to him.

An unfathomable sympathy filled her heart.

“I can talk no more,” she said, gently taking in her own the young man’s hand.  “I will accept your promise.  Come and go as you have, dear Howard.  But always remember that very much depends on your keeping from Barbara all knowledge of your love.”

As soon as it was possible, Mrs. Douglas, as was her wont when in any anxiety, sought a conference with her brother.  After telling him all, there was complete silence for a moment.  Then Mr. Sumner said:—­

“And Barbara,—­how do you think Barbara feels?  For she is not a child any longer.  How old were you, my sister, when you were married?  Only nineteen—­and you told me yesterday that we must celebrate Barbara’s and Bettina’s eighteenth birthday before very long, and Barbara is older than her years—­more womanly than most girls of her age.”

“She has never had a thought of this, I am confident.  Of course, she may have known, have felt, Howard’s admiration of her; but I doubt if the child has ever in her life had the slightest idea of the possible existence of any such feeling as he is cherishing.  It is not ordinary, Robert, it is overwhelming; you know we have seen his self-will shown in many ways.  The force of his emotion and will now is simply tremendous.  Few girls could withstand it if fully exposed to its influence.  There is all the more danger because the element of pity must enter in, because he is so evidently frail and lonely.  I feel that I have been greatly in fault.  I ought to have foreseen what might happen from admitting so freely into our home a young man of Howard’s age and circumstances.  I have never thought of Barbara and Betty otherwise than of my own Margery, and I know nothing in the world has ever been farther from good Dr. and Mrs. Burnett’s minds than the possible involvement of one of their girls in a love-affair.

“And now I must write them something of this,” she added, with a sigh.  “It would not be right to keep secret even the beginnings of what might prove to be of infinite importance.  Of course Howard’s family, character, position, are above question; but his health, his exacting nature; his lack of so many qualities Dr. Burnett considers essential; the undesirability of such an entanglement!  Oh! it would be only the beginning of sorrows should Barbara grow to care for him.”

Poor Mrs. Douglas’s face showed the sudden weight of care that had been launched upon her, as she anxiously asked:—­

“What do you advise, Robert?”