Then springing to his feet, he burst out eagerly: "Oh! Barbara, I swear I have thought on you each day these five long years. And now to find you again! You were lovely as a child, and I loved you. You are ten times more lovely now; why may I not love you still? And loving you, why may I not tell you so, as in the old days." "Because—because—Oh! ’tis folly. We were but children then, and——" "Then let us be children again, Bab," he answered softly. "See, the forest has brought us together again, and——" But Barbara sprang to her feet, too angry with herself and shamed for having conjured up, in former days, this love which she could not still, and womanlike, angry with him for persisting in a love which pained her. For even the best of women look upon the heart of man as an unbreakable toy. They tread upon it unthinkingly. "Indeed the forest has done nothing of the sort," she retorted angrily. "Do not be so foolish, Ralph, or I will talk with you no more. ’Tis unfair to tease me with matters that are past and done with." He looked at her gravely. "I am not foolish, Bab, and ’tis not past and done with yet," he answered stubbornly. "Then, ’tis high time it was. Look you, Ralph, I am glad you are here, ’tis good to see you again, but an you pester me with such talk, I shall—I shall—— I won’t have it, Ralph; ’tis unfair." He looked at her doubtfully, not knowing what to make of her anger. Then he submitted with a quietness that surprised her. Yet he deemed his cause not hopeless, only unripe. "I am sorry I angered you, Barbara," he answered quietly. "We will talk no more on the matter. Yet, perchance I seemed somewhat sudden. But I have always longed for you, Barbara, and when you came to me suddenly, in the wood, ’twas as tho’ Paradise had opened to me again." Barbara answered nothing. She had seated herself again by the stream and was now plucking the grass and dropping it bit by bit into the rippling water, pondering the while why love may not beget love, and blaming herself for her ungracious acceptance of a constancy of homage a woman should be proud to win. Presently Ralph sat down again by her side, and eyeing her for a minute doubtfully, he began with some hesitation: "Barbara!" "Well?" "Who is this fellow?" "What fellow, pray?" "Why, this Protheroe. Where did you meet with him, eh!" "I—I knew him first at Durford. He was quartered there with some troops, and rendered us some courtesy." "Hum! I like him not." "’Tis a pity," she answered drily. "No," he continued gravely; "and I like not that you should be wandering thus in his company. Why not send him away now, Barbara?" "Certainly not." "But wherefore not?" he urged. "Because I do not choose," she answered tartly. "Besides ’twould be foul ingratitude. He saved me from prison." "That is no reason why you should burden him with your protection now I am here. Indeed, Barbara, ’twere wiser to—to thank him, and leave him now."