She was wrong. Memories cannot bear the outer air, or be laid away in the cold earth; they can only live when they are hidden in our hearts, and quickened by our pulses. Barbara could not keep the remembrance of Reynold's love alive, with no love of her own to warm it. But in her ignorance she said, wistfully-- "I wish he could have been buried here!" and then added in a quicker tone, "I suppose you'll say it makes no difference where he lies." "Indeed I sha'n't," said Adrian. "There may be beauty or ugliness, fitness or unfitness, in one's last home as well as any other. Yes, I wish he were here. But he was an unlucky fellow; it seemed as if he were never to have anything he wanted, didn't it?" "How do you mean--not anything?" "Well, I think he would have liked Mitchelhurst Place." "Yes," said Barbara, "he would, I know." "And I am sure he would have liked the name of Rothwell. He was ashamed of his father's people. That pork-butcher rankled." "Oh!" said Barbara, still looking at the tombs, "did you know about that? Did everybody know?" She spoke very softly, as if she thought the dusty Rothwell, peering out of his marble curls, might overhear. "No, I suppose he didn't like him." "I know he didn't. Well, he hadn't the name he liked: he was saddled with the pork-butcher's name. And then, worst of all, he couldn't have you, Barbara!" She turned upon him with parted lips and a startled face. "Well," said Scarlett, "he couldn't, you know." "Adrian! how did you know he cared for me? He did, but how did you know it? I thought I ought not to tell anybody." "I saw him once," said Scarlett, "and I found it out. I saw him again--just passed him in the road, and we did not say a word. But I was doubly sure, if that were possible. Poor devil! If he could have had his way we should not have met in the lane that day, Barbara." "I never dreamed of it," she said. "I thought he hated me." "If a girl thinks a man hates her," said Adrian, "I suppose the chances are he does one thing or the other." "I never dreamed of it," she repeated, "never, till he told me at the end. It could not be my fault, could it, as I did not know? But it seemed so cruel--so hard! He had cared for me all the time, he said, and nobody had ever cared for him." "You mustn't be unhappy about that," said Scarlett, gently. "But that's just it!" Barbara exclaimed, plaintively. "I ought to be unhappy, and I can't be. Adrian! I've got all the happiness--a whole world full of it--and he had none. I must be a heartless wretch to stand here, and think of him, and be so glad because----" Because her hand was on Adrian's arm. "My darling," he said, in a tone half tenderly jesting, half earnest, "you mustn't blame yourself for this. What had you to do with it? Do you think you could have made that poor fellow happy?" She looked at him perplexed. "He loved me," she said.