"But it must not be," cried the minister, wringing his hands. "Woman, woman, why did you not confide in me from the first?" "And thus ruin him?" "Oh, mercy! mercy! how hard it is to act rightly!" cried the old man. "Sit down by me here on this bench," said Barbara, kindly. "I have no better seat to offer you. Sit down, old friend, and be calm as I am." The old man obeyed her, and, lifting his haggard eyes to her face, gazed upon her with the helplessness of a child. She had become almost calm: a gracious dew overspread her forehead and the light of a holy resolve shone in her eyes. "I must tell you every thing," she said, "for after I am gone you will take my duties up and bear them forward for my sake." "Speak on: I listen," answered the old man in a broken-hearted voice. CHAPTER L. BARBARA STAFFORD'S STORY. Barbara Stafford covered her face with both hands, for a moment pressing her temples hard, as if she hoped thus to still the crowd of thoughts under which her brain struggled. "Let me begin years back when you performed the marriage rite which has been the glory and bitterness of my life," she commenced at last, in a low, forced voice that betrayed the painful effort she was making. "My father was a proud man, as you know, but how much reason he had for this lofty ancestral pride no one on this side of the Atlantic ever guessed. He was, in fact, when we came to this country, the next heir to one of the richest earldoms in England--one of those few titles that fall alike to male and female heirs. My paternal grandmother was then living, and his near connection with her honors was but little known. After my mother's death--her maiden name was Barbara Stafford, that which I now bear as a disguise--we came to America, urged by curiosity to see a country so grand and wild, so full of wonderful promise. "I was young then, scarcely more than sixteen. We were thrown together--you know who I mean--even here I would not mention his name and wound the honor for which I am ready to die. We loved each other with the first bright passion of youth, with the enduring love which fills a whole life with bliss or a perpetual weight of pain. We were young, rash, mad. I knew how hopeless it was to attempt winning my father's consent. The noble youth your solemn voice made my husband was his equal or the equal of any man who ever drew breath; but he was poor--a man of the people, a working man, though educated with the best, in intellect and energy equal to those who build up dynasties. My father was struck dumb with his audacity, when he asked my hand in marriage. So embittered was he with this outrage to his pride that he hastened to leave the country. But for a few days, contrary winds held him weather-bound. Then driven to despair, we fled to you, my husband's old friend.