She set it down. "Shall I take away that pillow?" she asked. "No--wait." Barbara, after a minute, shifted her position, and stood by the carved post at the foot of the bed, while her thoughts went back to her novel. She was not heartless, she was only young. Her uncle had never been very much to her, and she found it as difficult to concentrate her mind on this melancholy business of sickness and dissolution as if it were a sermon. And yet she did sincerely desire to behave properly, and to feel properly, too, if it could be managed. The little old man rested awhile, sitting up in his bed. He perceived that the girl's thoughts were far away. He could keep her standing there as long as he pleased, a motionless figure against the faded green curtains, but he could not narrow her world to his sick-room. Perhaps for that very reason he felt a desire to awaken her from her reverie. "How old are you?" he asked. "Nineteen." The answer was given with a lifting of her long lashes. She had not expected any question about herself. "Nineteen?" "Yes. At least I shall be nineteen next month." A month more or less made little difference to Barbara. "As much as that?" he said. "Barbara, perhaps I ought to say something before I go." Her attention was effectually aroused, and her brilliant gaze rested on the dull, waxen mask before her. But after a moment his eyes fell away from hers. "I thought I did right," he said. "Yes?" Barbara questioned. "That young man who came here--what was his name?" "Mr. Harding." "No, no, no!" he cried irritably. "No! What made you think of him? The first one?" "Mr. Scarlett?" He nodded. "But it doesn't matter," he said. "If you were thinking of the other one it doesn't matter about Scarlett." "What about him?" "He wanted to speak to you before he went away, and I told him to wait. Better to wait--you were so young, you know." "He _did_ want to speak to me!" the girl exclaimed under her breath. "Plenty of time," said Mr. Hayes. "He's young too. I told him he could come again to Mitchelhurst if he felt the same. I thought it was best--I thought it was best," he repeated, trying to drown a faint consciousness that to have parted with Barbara would have upset all his arrangements. "I'm sure you did," she answered soothingly. "I know your mother would say it was best--wouldn't she? Besides, I didn't do any harm, since you were thinking of the other one." "He was here last," said Barbara. "So he was," the sick man answered, with a flash of his old briskness. "And girls soon forget."