"Thank you," says Dysart warmly. "I suppose I can write a line to my cousin explaining matters." "Of course. Joyce, take some writing things into the small parlor, and call for a lamp as you go." She is smiling at Joyce as she speaks, and now, going up to her, kisses her impulsively. Joyce returns the caress with fervor. It is natural that she should never have felt the sweetness, the content of Barbara so entirely as she does now, when her heart is open and full of ecstasy, and when sympathy seems so necessary. Darling Barbara! But then she must love Felix now just as much as she loves her. She rather electrifies Barbara and Felix by saying anxiously to the former: "Kiss Felix, too." It is impossible not to laugh. Mrs. Monkton gives way to immediate and unrestrained mirth, and Dysart follows suit. "It is a command," says he, and Barbara thereupon kisses him affectionately. "Well, now I have got a brother at last," says she. It is indeed her first knowledge of one, for that poor suicide in Nice had never been anything to her--or to any one else in the world for the matter of that--except a great trouble. "There, go," says she. "I think I hear Freddy coming." They fly. They both feel that further explanations are beyond them just as present; and as for Barbara, she is quite determined that no one but she shall let Freddy into the all-important secret. She is now fully convinced in her own mind that she had always had special prescience of this affair, and the devouring desire we all have to say "I told you how 'twould be" to our unfortunate fellow-travellers through this vale of tears, whether the cause for the hateful reminder be for weal or woe, is strong upon her now. She goes to the window, and seeing Monkton some way off, flings up the sash and waves to him in a frenzied fashion to come to her at once. There is something that almost approaches tragedy in her air and gesture. Monkton hastens to obey. "Now, what--what--what do you think has happened?" cries she, when he has vaulted the window sill and is standing beside her, somewhat breathless and distinctly uneasy. Nothing short of an accident to the children could, in his opinion, have warranted so vehement a call. Yet Barbara, as he examines her features carefully, seems all joyous excitement. After a short contemplation of her beaming face he tell himself that he was an ass to give up that pilgrimage of his to the lower field, where he had been going to inspect a new-born calf. "The skys are all right," says he, with an upward glance at them through the window. "And--you hadn't another uncle, had you?" "Oh, Freddy," says she, very justly disgusted. "Well, my good child, what then? I'm all curiosity." "Guess," says she, too happy to be able to give him the round scolding he deserves. "Oh! if it's a riddle," says he, "you might remember I am only a little one, and unequal to the great things of life."