"Cicely, Cicely," she cried, "never let it be said again that Barbara is a brainless madcap. I have conceived the properest plot, a very prince of plots. Thou shalt see thy Romeo to-night, my poor lovelorn Juliet, and I——faith! I will have the maddest prank that ever woman played." And flinging herself on to the grass, she laughed till the tears ran down her cheeks. Cicely stared at her in undisguised astonishment. "Barbara," she remarked solemnly, "I verily believe thou art mad." "Thou wouldest say so indeed an thou knewest my plan." "Come then, tell me." "Not I," laughed Barbara. "Be thou content with thy beloved Romeo, and leave me my jest to myself." "But, Barbara, I am afraid. What if the plan should fail!" "Talk not to me of failure, Cis. There is a risk, I do not deny it; but," she continued, laughing, "if danger befall can we not fight our way out? Butcher is a mighty ally; I am well nigh as handy as Rupert with the rapier, and thou mightest perchance discharge a pistol or so, if it were possible to do so and cover thine ears at the same moment." "In Heaven’s name, Barbara, what have you in your mind?" cried Cicely in dismay. "Fear nothing, coz; leave all to me. Listen, Peter the smith can always be trusted; he or little Jacky Marlow would carry our message to Rupert. If he start at twilight he should be here before ten. We can hide him——" "Whist, Barbara!" interrupted Cicely softly, "didst not hear a rustle in yonder bush? Can anyone be in hiding there?" "Tut, tut! thou trembler! Thou wouldest see a spy in every pansy face. ’Twas but a rat or a rabbit. Get thee in and send for Peter; I will write my note to Rupert." "I know not why I trust you, Barbara," said Cicely doubtfully, "for thou art ever a madcap. But I must see him." "Well so thou shalt, so thou shalt; now leave me alone to think." Left alone by the sun-dial Barbara resumed her favourite attitude for thought, one foot tucked beneath her, her head bent, her chin resting upon her clasped hands. She thought deeply. Twice or thrice she raised her head and laughed aloud suddenly, as though catching some new and entertaining idea. Once indeed her face grew grave and her eyes fearful, and she shuddered as she weighed the dangers before her, but presently with a laugh she banished the thought. Was she not a Winslow? and whenever was Winslow yet who let fear turn him from the path he chose to tread? At length she drew paper and pencil from her reticule, and wrote a short note. Then gathering up her flowers she rose and walked towards the house. As she passed the clump of laurel she paused and plucked a few sprigs, glancing sharply through the leaves the while; then with a laugh and a shake of the head she passed on. But having passed, there lay behind her in the centre of the path two roses and the little white note which had slipped from her fingers to the ground.