"Where were you before dinner?" he said at last, in a low voice. "I looked for you everywhere. I found you, and then you disappeared--utterly! We were close to the Priory to-day, and I went in for a moment, thinking you would like to have news of Madame Sampiero. By the way, McGregor gave me some letters for you." He put two envelopes down on the ledge of a prie-dieu behind which Barbara was standing, and which formed a slight barrier between them. She took the letters in her hand, and then, partly because of the dim light, put them back again on the prie-dieu. One note, unstamped, was from Oliver Boringdon,--she knew the handwriting, and so did Berwick. Barbara was to have gone back to-day; doubtless this note concerned some village matter which the writer was unwilling to mention to Doctor McKirdy. The other envelope bore the peculiar blue West Indian stamp. Why had not McGregor kept these letters till Tuesday? For the moment Barbara wanted to forget Boringdon and his rather morbid susceptibilities--to forget, till her next letter to the Johnstones, Santa Maria. "Won't you read your letters?" Berwick was looking straight across at her with a singular expression--was it of appeal or of command?--in his eyes. "Why should I--now?" But a moment later she changed her mind, "Yes, of course I will; Mr. Boringdon may have sent some message to my god-mother which ought to be seen to at once----" She opened the note, glanced through it, then put it down on the ledge of the prie-dieu. Berwick had turned away while she read Boringdon's note, but now he was again staring at her with those strange, appealing eyes which seemed to shine in the dim light. Reluctantly, as if in spite of herself, Barbara stretched out her hand and took up the other letter. Yes, it was, as she thought, from Andrew Johnstone--a bare word of kindly acknowledgment for the return of the fifty pounds which he had lent her. She looked round, still holding the letter in her hand, but they were far from the fire-- Berwick's face became set. Ah! no, that should not be. "Mrs. Rebell--?" He had not called her so, to herself, since the drive back from Halnakeham Castle, and she had not noticed his avoidance of her name; but now, the formal mode of address fell strangely on her ears. "Yes?" "May I read these two letters?" He added, almost inaudibly, "You cannot think more ill of me than I do of myself." Barbara suddenly felt as if she were taking part in an unreal scene, a dream colloquy, and yet she knew this was no dream. What had happened, what evil magic had so transformed her friend? That maternal instinct which slumbers lightly in the depths of every woman's heart, woke into life; she did not stay to diagnose the disease of which this strange request was a symptom: "Do read them," she said, and tried to speak indifferently, "I do not think ill of you--far from it, as Doctor McKirdy would say."