“Nothing; only to go on just as we have been doing.  Fill the days as full as we can, and trust that all will be right.  It is best never to try to manage affairs, I believe.”

And Barbara—­how did Barbara feel?  She could never have analyzed and put into definite thought the inner life she was leading during these days.  Indeed, it is doubtful whether she had the slightest conception of the change that was gradually working within her.  But rapidly she was putting away childish things, and “woman’s lot” was coming fast upon her.  Mrs. Douglas would have been astounded, indeed, could she, with her eyes of experience and wisdom, have looked into the heart of Barbara, whom she still called “child.”  That which the young girl could not understand would have been a revelation to her who had been a loving wife.  With what an overwhelming pity would she have hastened to restore her to her parents before this hopeless love should grow any stronger, and she become aware of its existence!

Dr. Burnett’s admiration for Robert Sumner was unbounded.  He had known him from boyhood, and had always been his confidant, so far as an older man can be with a younger.  Many times he had talked to his children about him—­about his earnestness and sincerity of purpose—­his high aims, and his willingness to spare no pains to realize them.

Barbara, who, perhaps, had been more than any other of the children her father’s comrade, had listened to these tales and praises until Robert Sumner had become her ideal of all that was noble.  No one had dreamed of such a thing, but so it was; and through all the excitement of preparation and through the journey to Italy, one of her chief anticipations had been to see this young man of whom her father had talked so much, and, herself, to learn to know him.  The story of his marriage disappointment, which had led to his life abroad, and a notable adventure in Egypt, in which he had saved a woman’s life, had added just that romance to his reputation as an artist and a writer on art that had seized hold of the young girl’s imagination.

Now, as she was daily with him in the home, saw his affectionate care for his sister, Malcom, and Margery, and felt his good comradeship with them all, while in every way he was teaching them and inspiring them to do better things than they had yet accomplished, a passionate desire had risen to make herself worthy of his approbation.  She wished him to think of her as more than a mere girl—­the companion of none but the very young.  She wished to be his companion, and all that was ardent and enthusiastic in her nature was beginning to rush, like a torrent that suddenly finds an outlet, into the channels indicated by him.