In the hotel, at the head of the ladies' staircase, they stood alone. "Good-by," said John, unwillingly. "I'll see you this evening, shan't I, when I come up to say good-by to your friends?" Barbara said he would. They shook hands, each pair of eyes confessing to the other the superfluity of the ceremony. "Good-by," said John again, as if he had not said it twice already. "Good-by. Mr. March, if you want to give securities--as you would to a bank--I--I shouldn't want anything better than your mother's poems." He glowed with gratitude and filial vanity, his big hand tightening on hers. "Oh, Miss Barb! no, no! But God bless you! I wonder if anyone else was ever so much like sunshine in a prison window! Good-by!" She felt her hand lifted by his; but, when she increased its weight the merest bit, he let it sink again and slide from his fingers. He was gone, and a moment later she was with the Fairs, talking slowly, with soft smiles; but her head swam, she heard their pleasant questions remotely as through a wall, and could feel her pulse to her fingers and feet. He had almost kissed her hand. "The next time--the next time--sweet heaven send this poor hand strength to resist just enough and--and not too much." So raved the prayer locked in her heart, or so it would have raved had she dared give it the liberty even of unspoken words. Meanwhile, John March lay on his bed with the back of his head in his hands. "I've offended her! There was no mistaking that last look. This wouldn't have happened if she hadn't let her hand linger in mine. Oh, I wish to heaven girls were not so senselessly innocent and sisterly! Great Caesar! I'd give five hundred dollars not to have drooled that drivel about being her brother! George! She ought to know that only a fool or a scamp could make such an absurd proposal. I wonder if she still wants to lend me her money! I'd rather face a whole bank directorate with an overdrawn account than those Fairs this evening. I know exactly how they'll look. For it will be just like her to tell Mrs. Fair, who'll tell her husband, and they'll bury the thing right there with me under it, and 'Miss Garnet' will excuse herself on the plea of fatigue, and the conversation will drag, and I'll wish I had cut my throat in Pulaski City, and"--a steeple clock tolled the hour----"Oh, can it be that that's only six!"