When Barbara rang the bell, not caring much--for a night in the park was of little consequence to her--the door was immediately opened, but only a little way, by some one without a light, whose face or even person she could not distinguish, for the door was quite in shadow. It closed again, and she was left darkling, to find her way to her room as best she might. She stood for a moment. “Who is it?” she said. No one answered. She heard neither footstep nor sound of garments. Carefully feeling her way, she got to the foot of the great stair, and in another minute was in her room. When Barbara entered lady Ann's dressing-room, she greeted her with less than her usual frigidity. “Good morning, my love! You were late last night!” she said. “I thought I was rather early,” answered Barbara, laughing. “May I ask where you were?” said her ladyship, with her habitual composure. “About a mile and a half from here, at that little cottage in Burrow-lane.” “How did you come to be there--and for so long? You were hours away!” Even lady Ann could not prevent a little surprise in her tone as she said the words. “Mr. Tuke came and told me----” “I beg your pardon, but do I know Mr. Tuke?” “The bookbinder, at work in the library.” “Wouldn't your mother be rather astonished at your having secrets with a working-man?” “Secrets, lady Ann!” exclaimed Barbara. “Your ladyship forgets herself!” Lady Ann looked up with a languid stare in the fresh young face, rosy with anger. “Was I not in the act,” pursued the girl, “of telling you all about it? You dare accuse me of such a thing! I only wish you would carry that tale of me to my mother!” “I am not accustomed to be addressed in this style, Barbara!” drawled lady Ann, without either raising or quickening her voice. “Then it is time you began, if you are accustomed to speak to girls as you have just spoken to me! I am not accustomed to be told that I have a secret with any man--or woman either! I don't know which I should like worse! I have no secrets. I hate them.” “Compose yourself, my child. You need not be afraid of _me_!” said lady Ann. “I am not your enemy.” She thought Barbara's anger came from fear, for she regarded herself as a formidable person. But for victory she rested mainly on her imperturbability. “Look me in the face, lady Ann, and tell yourself whether I am afraid of you!” answered Barbara, the very soul of indignation flashing in her eyes. “I fear no enemy.” Lady Ann found she had a new sort of creature to deal with. “That I am your friend, you will not doubt when I tell you it was I who let you in last night! I did not wish your absence or the hour of your return to be known. My visitors must not be remarked upon by my servants!” “Then why did you not speak to me?” “I wished to give you a lesson.” “You thought to frighten _me_, as if I were a doughy, half-baked English girl! Allow me to ask how you were aware I was out.”