"Nay, child," answered Cicely calmly, "I see not what can be done now. The man has gone. ’Tis pity you have sent him so discourteously away, but he has gone." As she spoke she glanced once more quickly, questioningly at her cousin, then gathering together her flowers, she turned back towards the house. But as she went she smiled mischievously and hummed a light ditty she herself had learned from Sir Rupert, and thus ran the words: "When maiden fair, to rouse despair, Doth ponder long ’twixt yea and no, The man who sighs, an he be wise, Will lightly turn his back and go. For tho’ he fear, while he be near, Of love for him the maid hath none; Yet when, alack! he turns his back, He’ll find her heart is quickly won." Cicely passed into the house, leaving Barbara standing alone by the sun-dial heedless alike of song or smile; for her, song and laughter seemed to have died forever. As she watched the shadow creep along the dial, it seemed to her like the shadow creeping over her soul, darkening each succeeding moment of her life as her sun passed further on his way. And as the shadow crept, so must her life creep on henceforth; slowly, in silence and in shadow to the end. And all her heart surged up in the despairing cry: "I love him, I love him; he has gone!" Gone! Aye! but not past recall. She started, the crimson flushing to her brows at the thought. Could she—could she not follow him and beg him to return, seeing he had gone in misunderstanding, deeming her ungrateful, unkind? Nay, did she not owe it to her love to do so, seeing he had left her apprehending that she loved another? But could she, indeed, do this? Could she, Barbara Winslow, follow any man and beg him to return to her, as it would seem, kneeling before him to entreat his favour; she who hitherto had walked ever as proudest among women? The thought angered her. And yet, she loved him, and perchance, nay, surely, he loved her. Must two lives be darkened because she feared to lower her pride? Men might look askance upon her deed, but—she loved him. Was her love so poor a thing that it could be dishonoured by so small a thought? If love was worthy of aught, surely it was worthy of courage. She loved him, was he not her king, a man to whom a queen might be proud to stoop! Thus was she tortured, now daring, now shrinking, till her pride faded in the glory of her love, and she raised her head proudly to the free heavens, resolved upon her course. She hastened to the stables, and with her own hands saddled her horse. There Cicely joined her, wondering. "What would you, Barbara?" she asked. "I will follow him," she answered calmly, "to beg him not to leave me." "Barbara! You cannot!" cried Cicely quickly; "think what will be said! Think of the shame!" But Barbara looked at her with a strange smile. "I love him, Cis," she said softly; "what has love to do with shame?" And so saying, she mounted her pony, and rode off.