She dropped into conversation as they all sat together, pursuing no particular subject, but wandering from thought to thought, as a forest-bird touches this branch and then another, in its flight upward. Elizabeth leaned towards her, and listened; she saw the eyes of her young lover kindle under the influence of those words, till their brightness was visible in the gathering mist. She felt no resentment then. With her hand clasped in those caressing fingers, to love that woman seemed the most natural thing in life. She began even to join in the conversation, to call Lovel by his given name, and, for the time, turn back pleasantly to her old friendly ways. After a little, Norman came over from his place opposite the two ladies, and sat down on the other side of Elizabeth. His hand stole in among the roses, and Barbara left that of Elizabeth in its clasp. The heart of the young girl began to swell: she leaned her head upon Norman's shoulder, and wept silently. A little time more, and those two young souls would have been reconciled again. A human heart-throb must sometimes unweave that chain of passing events which men call destiny; but here it was not to be. The sound of horses' feet came along the road, slowly and heavily, as if the tired animals were returning from a long journey. The little group in front of Governor Phipps's house ceased speaking, and listened. "It is--it is my father," cried Elizabeth, starting up; "see, they turn this way! It is the governor, and my father!" Barbara Stafford gathered the shawl around her, shivering, till the teeth chattered in her head; but she sat still, with her features lost in the shadow of the porch; she seemed chilled through by the night air. Norman Lovel descended the steps, and stood waiting for the horses to come up. A week before, Elizabeth would have sprung to his side; now, she stood alone a moment, then ran into the house to inform Lady Phipps of her husband's coming. Barbara Stafford arose, looked through the gathering darkness, and saw three horsemen moving towards the house; they dismounted; one paused on the terrace, struggling against his own eager wishes. The other came hurriedly up the steps. The third, who was a servant, wheeled around, and rode towards the stables, leading the two weary horses by their bridles. Barbara Stafford turned from the terrace as the man came up; the twilight clung around her like a veil; there she stood motionless--she had been searching in vain for the door latch. He came up the steps, saw a female figure in the gloom, and held out his arms. "My wife!" Barbara Stafford had no power to move; she felt his arms around her, she felt herself strained to his bosom, and his lips pressed upon hers. That instant the door opened, and Lady Phipps stood upon the threshold in a river of light, which flowed out from the hall. CHAPTER XIX. CONVERSATION ON THE PORCH.