Cautiously peeping over the gate again, she looked down the road.  A tall form, whose very height and strength bore a grace of which its owner was unconscious, was advancing rapidly toward her from the direction of West Lynne.  Again she shrank away; true love is ever timid; and whatever may have been Barbara Hare’s other qualities, her love at least was true and deep.  But instead of the gate opening, with the firm quick motion peculiar to the hand which guided it, the footsteps seemed to pass, and not to have turned at all toward it.  Barbara’s heart sank, and she stole to the gate again, and looked out with a yearning look.

Yes, sure enough he was striding on, not thinking of her, not coming to her; and she, in the disappointment and impulse of the moment, called to him,—­

“Archibald!”

Mr. Carlyle—­it was no other—­turned on his heel, and approached the gate.

“Is it you, Barbara!  Watching for thieves and poachers?  How are you?”

“How are you?” she returned, holding the gate open for him to enter, as he shook hands, and striving to calm down her agitation.  “When did you return?”

“Only now, by the eight o’clock train, which got in beyond its time, having drawled unpardonably at the stations.  They little thought they had me in it, as their looks betrayed when I got out.  I have not been home yet.”

“No!  What will Cornelia say?”

“I went to the office for five minutes.  But I have a few words to say to Beauchamp, and am going up at once.  Thank you, I cannot come in now; I intend to do so on my return.”

“Papa has gone up to Mr. Beauchamp’s.”

“Mr. Hare!  Has he?”

“He and Squire Pinner,” continued Barbara.  “They have gone to have a smoking bout.  And if you wait there with papa, it will be too late to come in, for he is sure not to be home before eleven or twelve.”

Mr. Carlyle bent his head in deliberation.  “Then I think it is of little use my going on,” said he, “for my business with Beauchamp is private.  I must defer it until to-morrow.”

He took the gate out of her hand, closed it, and placed the hand within his own arm, to walk with her to the house.  It was done in a matter-of-fact, real sort of way; nothing of romance or sentiment hallowed it; but Barbara Hare felt that she was in Eden.

“And how have you all been, Barbara, these few days?”

“Oh, very well.  What made you start off so suddenly?  You never said you were going, or came to wish us good-bye.”

“You have just expressed it, Barbara—­’suddenly.’  A matter of business suddenly arose, and I suddenly went upon it.”

“Cornelia said you were only gone for a day.”

“Did she?  When in London I find so many things to do!  Is Mrs. Hare better?”

“Just the same.  I think mamma’s ailments are fancies, half of them; if she would rouse herself she would be better.  What is in that parcel?”