"How profoundly you were thinking!" he said. "I was almost afraid to disturb you." "Yes," answered Barbara, "I was trying to find out what has swept so much of the darkness from my life within the last hour." "And did you find a happy conclusion? I hope so, for then I shall think that some pleasure at my coming was mingled with your thoughts. Oh, dear lady, you never will know how keenly we felt your loss." "And yet I am a stranger to you all." "Some people are never strangers. I feel as if I had known you from the cradle up--as if my happiness would never be complete if you were away. The touch of your hand soothes me, and your voice stirs my heart, like music heard before thought or memory comes. When I am near you, a solemn gladness quiets me into a very child. Oh, lady, I love you dearly." Barbara did not start, or change color. This language seemed natural to her, as the rush of the waves on the beach. She simply bent down and laid her hand on his forehead. He drew a deep breath and was silent. The smile upon his lips was like that of an infant Samuel when he prays. "I have found you at last; you will never, never leave us again!" "When the ship sails I must go yonder," she answered, pointing seaward. "To England! Why should you go? Have you friends there more dear than those you will leave behind?" questioned the youth, anxiously. "I have no friends there, but many duties," said Barbara, and her voice trembled painfully. "When I leave these shores, every living being that I love will be left behind." "Why go, then? Why abandon those who regard you tenderly, for a land that contains no friends?" Barbara turned pale as she looked down into those beautiful, eager eyes. "Because," she said, extending her hand toward the ocean, "because that must roll between us and--and this continent, before I can fall into the heavy rest, which is all I hope or ask for now." "But why go away? This is a new country; a mind and energy like yours may find ample scope for exertion here. Become the missionary of intelligence. We have school-houses, but few teachers. What grand men and noble women would be given to the world, from a teacher at once so strong and so gentle." Barbara smiled a little proudly. The idea of becoming a school-teacher in one of the colonies had evidently never entered her mind. Norman saw the smile and blushed. "You think it a humble means of good," he said, "and are, perhaps, offended with me for naming it. But Governor Phipps thinks it a calling of the utmost importance in these settlements. He says that the man, or woman, who gives wisdom and Christianity to our little ones, holds an office higher than that of any judge or statesman in the land." Barbara gazed wistfully in Norman's face, while he was speaking. An earnest gleam came into her eyes, and her lips began to quiver. Why was her voice so like a hoarse whisper when she spoke? "Did--did Governor Phipps speak of me in this connection?"