“Not a bit,” called out one of the children, it was Janey, “it is very good of us to have him when there’s only one duck. Anthony, you mustn’t eat duck, as we don’t often get one and you have hundreds.” “Not I, dear, I hate ducks,” he relied automatically, for his eyes were seeking the face of Barbara. Barbara was seated in the wooden armchair with a cushion on it, near the fire of driftwood, advantages that were accorded to her in honour of her still being an invalid. Even to a stranger she would have looked extraordinarily sweet with her large and rather plaintive violet eyes over which the long black lashes curved, her waving chestnut hair parted in the middle and growing somewhat low upon her forehead, her tall figure, very thin just now, and her lovely shell-like complexion heightened by a blush. To Anthony she seemed a very angel, an angel returned from the shores of death for his adoration and delight. Oh! if things had gone the other way—if there had been no sweet Barbara seated in that wooden chair! The thought gripped his heart with a hand of ice; he felt as he had felt when he looked at the window-place from the crest of Gunter’s Hill. But she _had_ come back, and he was sure that they were each other’s for life. And yet, and yet, life must end one day and then, what? Once more that hand of ice dragged at his heart strings. In a moment it was all over and Mr. Walrond was speaking. “Why don’t you bid Barbara good-day, Anthony?” he asked. “Don’t you think she looks well, considering? We do, better than you, in fact,” he added, glancing at his face, which had suddenly grown pale, almost grey. “He’s going to give Barbara the violets and doesn’t know how to do it,” piped the irrepressible Janey. “Anthony, why don’t you ever bring _us_ violets, even when we have the whooping cough?” “Because the smell of them is bad for delicate throats,” he answered, and without a word handed the sweet-scented flowers to Barbara. She took them, also without a word, but not without a look, pinned a few to her dress, and reaching a cracked vase from the mantelpiece, disposed of the rest of them there till she could remove them to her own room. Then Mr. Walrond began to say grace and the difficulties of that meeting were over. Anthony sat by Barbara. His chair was rickety, one of the legs being much in need of repair; the driftwood fire that burned brightly about two feet away grilled his spine, for no screen was available, and he nearly choked himself with a piece of very hot and hard potato. Yet to tell the truth never before did he share in such a delightful meal. For soon, when the clamour of “the girls” swelled loud and long, and the attention of Mr. and Mrs. Walrond was entirely occupied with the burnt beef and the large duck that absolutely refused to part with its limbs, he found himself almost as much alone with Barbara as though they had been together on the wide seashore. “You are really getting quite well?” he asked.