‘This is the man,’ said Ignatius Jordan, clinging to the door-jamb and pointing excitedly with his stick,—’this is the man who robbed his own father of money that was mine. This is the man who was locked up in jail and broke out, and, by the mercy and justice of Heaven, was cast at my door.’ ‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ said Joseph, ‘I don’t understand. This is your steward, Mr. Jasper.’ ‘Take him, handcuff him before my eyes. This is the fellow you have been in search of; I deliver him up.’ ‘But, sir,’ said the warder, ‘you are wrong. This is not our escaped convict.’ ‘He is, I tell you I know he is.’ ‘I am sorry to differ from you, sir, but this is not he. I know which is which. Why, this chap’s hair have never been cut. If he’d been with us he’d have a head like a mole’s back.’ ‘Not he!’ cried Mr. Jordan frantically. ‘I say to you this is Jasper Babb.’ ‘Well, sir,’ said the warder, ‘sorry to differ, sir, but our man ain’t Jasper at all—he’s Martin.’ Then Joseph turned his light blue eyes round in quest of Jane. ‘I’ll roast her! I’ll eat her,’ he muttered, ‘at the next Love Feast.’ The men went away much disappointed, grumbling, swearing, ill-appeased by a glass of cider each; Jane sulked in the kitchen, and said to Barbara, ‘This day month, please, miss.’ Mr. Jordan, confounded, disappointed, crept back to his room and cast himself on his bed. The only person in the house who could have helped them out of their disappointment was Eve, who knew something of the story of Martin, and knew, moreover, or strongly suspected, that he was not very far off. But no one thought of consulting Eve. When all the party of constables was gone, Barbara stood in the garden, and Jasper came to her. ‘You will tell me all now?’ she said, looking at him with eyes full of thankfulness and trust. ‘Yes, Miss Jordan, everything. It is due to you. May I sit here by you on the garden seat?’ She seated herself, with a smile, and made room for him, drawing her skirts to her. The ten-week stocks, purple and white, in a bed under the window filled the air with perfume; but a sweeter perfume than ten-week stocks, to Barbara, charged the atmosphere—the perfume of perfect confidence. Was Barbara plain? Who could think that must have no love for beauty of expression. She had none of her sister’s loveliness, but then Eve had none of hers. Each had a charm of her own,—Eve the charm of exquisite physical perfection, Barbara that of intelligence and sweet faith and complete self-devotion streaming out of eye and mouth—indeed, out of every feature. Which is lovelier—the lantern, or the light within? There was little of soul and character in frivolous Eve. When Jasper seated himself beside Miss Jordan neither spoke for full ten minutes. She folded her hands on her lap. Perhaps their souls were, like the ten-week stocks, exhaling sweetness. ‘Dear Miss Jordan,’ said Jasper, ‘how pleasantly the thrushes are singing!’