It was quite dark now; all the light came from a pale wild sky.  The moon was young, and feebly intermittent with the clouds.

Barney, hastening along, was all trembling and unnerved.  He tried to persuade himself that the woman whom he had just left was ill, and laboring under some sudden aberration of mind; yet, in spite of himself, he realized a terrible rationality in it.  Little as he had been among the village people of late, and little as he had heard of the village gossip, he knew the story of Richard Alger’s desertion of Sylvia Crane.  Was he not like Richard Alger in his own desertion of Charlotte Barnard? and had not Sylvia been as little at fault in taking one for the other as if they had been twin brothers?  Might there not be a closer likeness between characters than features—­perhaps by a repetition of sins and deformities? and might not one now and then be able to see it?

Then the question came, was Charlotte like Sylvia?  Was Charlotte even now sitting watching for him with that awful eagerness which comes from a hunger of the heart?  He had seen one woman’s wounded heart, and, like most men, was disposed to generalize, and think he had seen the wounded hearts of all women.

When he had reached the turn of the road, and had come out on the main one where his house was, and where Charlotte lived, he stood still, looking in her direction.  He seemed to see her, a quarter of a mile away in the darkness, sitting in her window watching for him, as Sylvia had watched for Richard.

He set his mouth hard and crossed the road.  He had just reached his own yard when there was the pale flutter of a skirt out of the darkness before him, and a little shadowy figure met him with a soft shock.  The was a smothered nervous titter from the figure.  Barney did not know who it was; he muttered an apology, and was about to pass into his yard when Rose Berry’s voice arrested him.  It was quite trembling and uncertain; all the laughter had gone out of it.

“Oh, it’s you,” said she; “you frightened me.  I didn’t know who it was.”

Barney felt suddenly annoyed without knowing why.  “Oh, is it you, Rose?” he returned, stiffly.  “It’s a pleasant evening;” then he turned.

“Barney!” Rose said, and her voice sounded as if she were weeping.

Barney stopped and waited.

“I want to know if—­you’re mad with me, Barney.”

“No, of course I ain’t; why?”

“I thought you’d acted kind of queer to me lately.”

Barney stood still, frowning in the darkness.  “I don’t know what you mean,” he said at length.  “I don’t know how I’ve treated you any different from any of the girls.”

“You haven’t been to see me, and—­you’ve hardly spoken to me since the cherry party.”

“I haven’t been to see anybody,” said Barney, shortly; and he turned away again, but Rose caught his arm.  “Then you are sure you aren’t mad with me?” she whispered.