‘Let them lie there, where I can see them.’ ‘But, papa, what will the maids think when they come in? Besides it is untidy to let them litter about the floor.’ He made an impatient gesture with his hand. ‘May I not, at least, fold them and lay them on the chair?’ ‘You may not touch them at all,’ he said in a tone of irritation. She knew his temper too well to oppose him further. ‘Good night, dear papa. I suppose Eve is gone to bed?’ ‘Yes; go also.’ She was obliged, most reluctantly, to leave the room. She ascended the stairs, and entered her own sleeping apartment. From this a door communicated with that of her sister. She opened this door and with her light entered and crossed it. Eve had gone to bed, and thrown all her clothes about on the floor. Barbara had some difficulty in picking her way among the scattered articles. When she came to the bedside, she stood, and held her candle aloft, and let the light fall over the sleeping girl. How lovely she was, with her golden hair in confusion on the pillow! She was lying with her cheek on one rosy palm, and the other hand was out of bed, on the white sheet—and see! upon the finger, Barbara recognised the turquoise ring. Eve did not venture to wear this by day. At night, in her room, she had thrust the golden hoop over her finger, and had gone to sleep without removing it. Barbara stooped, and kissed her sister’s cheek. Eve did not awake, but smiled in slumber; a dimple formed at the corner of her mouth. Then Barbara went to her own room, opened her desk, and the secret drawer, and looked at the bunch of dry roses. They were very yellow now, utterly withered and worthless. The girl took them, stooped her face to them—was it to discover if any scent lingered in the faded leaves? Then she closed the drawer and desk again, with a sigh. Was Barbara insensible to what is beautiful, inappreciative of the poetry of life? Surely not. She had been forced by circumstances to be practical, to devote her whole thought to the duties of the house and estate; she had said to herself that she had no leisure to think of those things that make life graceful; but through her strong, direct, and genuine nature ran a ‘Leitmotif’ of sweet, pure melody, kept under and obscured by the jar and jangle of domestic cares and worries, but never lost. There is no nature, however vulgar, that is deficient in its musical phrase, not always quite original and unique, and only the careless listener marks it not. The patient, attentive ear suspects its presence first, listens for it, recognises it, and at last appreciates it. In poor faithful Barbara now the sweet melody, somewhat sad, was rising, becoming articulate, asserting itself above all other sounds and adventitious strains—but, alas! there was no ear to listen to it. Barbara went to her window and opened it. ‘How the owls are hooting to-night!’ she said. ‘They, like myself, are full of unrest. To-whit! To-whoo!’ CHAPTER XXXIV. THE DOVES.