"That is settled then," said the elder man, "and we shall see you to-morrow. I am a good deal engaged myself, but Barbara is quite at home in Mitchelhurst, and can show you all the Rothwell memorials--the Rothwells are the romance of Mitchelhurst, you know. She'll be delighted to do the honours, eh, Barbara?" The girl murmured a shy answer. "Oh, if I trespass on your kindness I think that's enough; I needn't victimise Miss Strange," said the young man, and he laughed a little, not altogether pleasantly. "And I can't claim any of the romance. My name isn't Rothwell." "The name isn't everything," said Mr. Hayes. "Come, Barbara, it's getting late, and I want my dinner. Till to-morrow, then," and he held out his hand to their new acquaintance. Young Harding bowed stiffly to Barbara. "Till to-morrow afternoon." The old man and the girl walked away, he with an elderly sprightliness of bearing which seemed to say, "See how active I still am!" she moving by his side with dreamy, unconscious grace. They came to a curve in the road, and she turned her head and looked back before she passed it. Mr. Reynold Harding had taken but a couple of steps from the spot where they had left him. He had apparently arranged his bandage to his satisfaction at last, and was pulling at the knot with his teeth and his other hand, but his face was towards them, and Barbara knew that he saw that backward glance. She quickened her steps in hot confusion, and looked straight before her for at least five minutes. During that time it was her uncle who was the hero of her thoughts. His dramatic recognition of Harding and Harding's ring, his absolute refusal to permit the young man to go to any house in Mitchelhurst but the Place, something in the tone of his voice when he uttered his "thirty years ago," hinted a romance to Barbara. The conjecture might or might not be correct, but at any rate it was natural. Girls who do not understand love are apt to use it to explain all the other things they do not understand. She waited till her cheeks were cool, and her thoughts clear, and then she spoke. "I didn't know you knew the Rothwells so well, uncle." "My dear," said her uncle, "how should you?" "I suppose you might have talked about them." "I might," said Mr. Hayes. "Now you mention it, I might, certainly. But I haven't any especial fancy for the gossip of the last generation." "Well, I have," said the girl. And after a moment she went on. "How long is it since they left the Place?" Her uncle put his head on one side with a quick, birdlike movement, and apparently referred to a cloud in the western sky before he made answer. "Nineteen years last Midsummer." "And when did you take it?" "A year later." The two walked a little way in silence, and then Barbara recommenced. "This Mr. Harding--he is like the Rothwells, then?"