“You are not to inquire, Miss Barbara.  It does not concern you.  It only concerns Mrs. Hare.”

“Is it something you have brought for mamma, Archibald?”

“Of course.  A countryman’s visit to London entails buying presents for his friends; at least, it used to be so, in the old-fashioned days.”

“When people made their wills before starting, and were a fortnight doing the journey in a wagon,” laughed Barbara.  “Grandpapa used to tell us tales of that, when we were children.  But is it really something for mamma?”

“Don’t I tell you so?  I have brought something for you.”

“Oh!  What is it?” she uttered, her color rising, and wondering whether he was in jest or earnest.

“There’s an impatient girl!  ‘What is it?’ Wait a moment, and you shall see what it is.”

He put the parcel or roll he was carrying upon a garden chair, and proceeded to search his pockets.  Every pocket was visited, apparently in vain.

“Barbara, I think it is gone.  I must have lost it somehow.”

Her heart beat as she stood there, silently looking up at him in the moonlight. Was it lost? What had it been?

But, upon a second search, he came upon something in the pocket of his coat-tail.  “Here it is, I believe; what brought it there?” He opened a small box, and taking out a long, gold chain, threw it around her neck.  A locket was attached to it.

Her cheeks’ crimson went and came; her heart beat more rapidly.  She could not speak a word of thanks; and Mr. Carlyle took up the roll, and walked on into the presence of Mrs. Hare.

Barbara followed in a few minutes.  Her mother was standing up, watching with pleased expectation the movements of Mr. Carlyle.  No candles were in the room, but it was bright with firelight.

“Now, don’t laugh at me,” quoth he, untying the string of the parcel.  “It is not a roll of velvet for a dress, and it is not a roll of parchment, conferring twenty thousand pounds a year.  But it is—­an air cushion!”

It was what poor Mrs. Hare, so worn with sitting and lying, had often longed for.  She had heard such a luxury was to be bought in London, but never remembered to have seen one.  She took it almost with a greedy hand, casting a grateful look at Mr. Carlyle.

“How am I to thank you for it?” she murmured through her tears.

“If you thank me at all, I will never bring you anything again,” cried he, gaily.  “I have been telling Barbara that a visit to London entails bringing gifts for friends,” he continued.  “Do you see how smart I have made her?”

Barbara hastily took off the chain, and laid it before her mother.

“What a beautiful chain!” muttered Mrs. Hare, in surprise.  “Archibald, you are too good, too generous!  This must have cost a great deal; this is beyond a trifle.”