Barbara carried a quantity of red roses in her hand, which Norman had gathered from a plant in the garden. Some memory was aroused by the flowers, which caused her to receive them with reluctance. She had held the roses for a moment, as if doubtful whether to place them on her bosom or dash them to the earth; but seeing that her hesitation annoyed the youth, carried them in her hand. "You are young," she said, laying the roses in Elizabeth's lap; "flowers should whisper only cheerful things. To you they will speak of the present, and that should be gladsome. When they bring back the past to any one, it is always a pain. Young gentleman, hereafter you shall gather roses only for ladies who have hopes, like yourself!" Elizabeth's first impulse was to take up the flowers from her lap, and throw them over the railing behind the seat; but the very sound of Barbara's voice drove this bitter pride from her heart. She allowed them to remain in her lap--thought of the blush roses he had given to her so little time before in that very place, and bent her head lower and lower that Norman might not see the tears which gathered in her eyes. Barbara did not observe these tears, for Elizabeth sat so much in the shadow that the drooping outline of her figure alone was visible; but this was enough to enlist the quick sympathy of a woman who never looked unmoved on human sorrow. She sat down at once, and with a movement of tender interest took the little hand which had fallen among the flowers. Elizabeth started as if a serpent had crept out from among the roses and stung her palm. But scarcely had Barbara's fingers closed on hers, when she was seized with an irresistible impulse to return their clasp; and, in her sorrow, she leaned towards the woman, whom she had hated so bitterly a few moments before, as a sun-flower bends towards the sun. Barbara felt the change, without understanding it. This gift of winning affection with a look, and of turning hate into love, was the great power of her character. She did not herself comprehend it, but the very magnetism of her presence was a prerogative richer than that of royalty, and as dangerous. Something kindred to this power existed in the youth; it was perhaps this subtle feeling that drew these persons into their present companionship. When her heart was full of either joy or sadness, Barbara Stafford conversed beautifully. Her voice, as I have said, was full of tenderness and pathos; it came from the heart like a gush of spring water. She was depressed that evening; a little thing suffices to draw out the low tones of a nature like hers. Some angel had come out from the past, and troubled the waters of her soul; no matter upon what her conversation turned, the melody of these waters was certain to ripple through.