The young people remained where he had left them. Barbara trifled with the chessmen, moving them capriciously here and there. Reynold, with his head on his hand, did not lift his eyes above the level of the board, but watched her slim fingers as they slipped from piece to piece, or lingered on the red-stained ivory. She brought back all their slain combatants, and set them up upon the battle-field. "I wish I hadn't meddled!" she said suddenly. "I spoilt your game." She spoke in a low voice, and Reynold answered in the same tone, "What _did_ it matter?" "No, but I hate to be beaten. I wanted you to win." "Well," said he, still with his head down, "you set me to play a bigger game to-day." "Ah!" said Barbara, decidedly. "I won't meddle with that!" "No?" he said, looking up with a half-hinted smile. Her cheeks were still burning with the excitement of her long struggle, and her bright eyes met his questioning glance. "Perhaps you think I can't help meddling?" she suggested. "Perhaps you can't. You are superstitious, aren't you? You believe in amulets and that kind of thing--or half believe. Perhaps you are foredoomed to meddle, and destiny won't let you set me down to the game and go quietly away." Barbara was holding the king between her fingers. She replaced it on its square so absently, while she looked at Reynold, that it fell. His words seemed to trouble her. "Well, if this game is an omen, you had better not _let_ me meddle," she said at last. "How am I to help it?" "Thank you!" she exclaimed resentfully; "I'm not so eager to interfere in your affairs as you seem to take for granted!" "Indeed I thought nothing of the kind. I thought we were talking of destiny. And, you see, you were good enough to take a little interest this afternoon." She uttered a half-reluctant "Yes." She had a dim feeling that she was, in some inexplicable way, becoming involved in young Harding's fortunes. The notion half-frightened, half-fascinated her. When they began their low-voiced talk she had unconsciously leaned a little towards him. Now she did not precisely withdraw, but she lifted her face, and there was a touch of shy defiance in the poise of her head. Mr. Hayes, as he stood by the fire, was warming first one little polished shoe, and then the other, and contemplating the blazing logs. "Barbara," he said suddenly, "did we have this wood from Jackson? It burns much better than the last." Barbara was the little housekeeper again in a moment. She crossed the room, and explained that it was not Jackson's wood, but some of a load which Mr. Green had asked them to take. "You said I could do as I pleased," she added, "and I thought they looked very nice logs when they came."