"No, but when I had been speaking of you, he said it, as if the idea came with your name." Barbara shook her head, slowly and mournfully. "It can never happen. This land holds no corner of rest for me now. Here is struggle, temptation, bitter soul-strife; there, is rest, that leaden rest, which comes when there is nothing to hope or fear. Oh, my young friend, it is a terrible thing, when one reaches the hill-tops of life, and finds a broad, ashen desert beyond, with a grave on the other side, which you long to reach, but must not." "But surely this is not your case, lady?" "Alas! what else?" she whispered, casting that wistful look seaward again. "What of joy, or hope, can ever come to me again?" "And are you so unhappy?" questioned the youth, almost with tears in his eyes. "Unhappy! I do not know--but let us talk of other things: this fair girl Elizabeth." "Do not speak of her--she wounds me with her coldness, she insults me with suspicions--let us talk of any thing rather than her." "But she loves you, for all that." "I do not believe it!" cried the youth, impetuously: "love does not turn a maiden into stone, when a true heart appeals to hers. You would not repulse me one hour, and adore me the next. I am tired of girls!" Barbara smiled, as if the prattle of an infant had amused her. "Fiery young heart," she said, laying her hand on his shoulder, "how little you comprehend the feelings that trouble you!" "I can only understand how much sweeter your voice is than hers, how grand your words are, how like heaven the earth seems when you permit me to rest as I do now at your feet, and look forth on the ocean. With you, all is rest--with her, excitement, discontent. She does not love me, and I begin to think that I do not love her." "Boy, forbear. This is madness. Your heart does not speak out here. Such impetuosity will end in evil. Check it. Your wild temper belies a noble nature. Remember Elizabeth Parris is your betrothed wife!" "I can remember nothing, except that I have offended you," answered the youth, passionately, "and I would rather die here at your feet." "Hush," said Barbara, "here comes Samuel Parris. He turns this way. I will stroll toward the beach, while you converse with him." "Nay! I will follow you." Barbara had arisen. The young man started to his feet, and prepared to walk forward with her. His color rose, and a glow of haughty resentment came to his forehead as he caught a glimpse of Samuel Parris, who was walking quickly toward them, while his face lowered with sombre anxiety. "Stop," cried the old man, lifting his staff. "Move not to the right or the left, till I have spoken with you both, face to face." Barbara Stafford drew her proud figure to its height. There was something too imperative in his command for her humble endurance. At times, blood, that seemed born of emperors, mantled over that broad forehead. It rose red and warm now.