Richard was nowise astonished at Barbara's coolness, or her courage, or the business-like way in which she tucked the great hoof under her arm, or even at the accurate aim which brought the right sort of blow down on the head of nail after nail in true line with its length; but he was astonished at the strength of her little hand, the hardness of her muscles, covered with just fat enough to make form and movement alike beautiful, and the knowing skill with which she twisted off the ends of the nails: the quick turn necessary, she seemed to have by nature. In her keen watching, she had so identified herself with the operator, that perfect insight had supplied the place of active experience, and seemed almost to have waked some ancient instinct that operated independent of consciousness. The mare was shod, and well shod, without any accident; and Richard felt no anxiety as he lifted the little lady to her back, and saw her canter away as if she had been presented with fresh feathery wings instead of only fresh iron shoes. He experienced, however, not a little disappointment: he had hoped to walk a part of her way alongside of Miss Brown. Barbara had in truth expected he would, but a sudden shyness came upon her, and made her start at speed the moment she was in the saddle. Simon and Richard stood looking after her. With a sharp scramble she turned. Richard darted forward. But nothing was wrong with the mare. She came at a quick trot, and they were side by side in a moment. Barbara had bethought herself that it was a pity to get no more pleasure or profit out of the afternoon than just a horse-shoeing! “She's all right!” she cried. Richard imagined she had but started to put her handiwork to the test. They walked back to the old man, and once more she thanked him--in such pretty fashion as made him feel a lord of the world. Then Richard and she moved away together in the direction of Mortgrange, and left Simon praying God to give them to each other before he died. They had not gone far when it became Richard's turn to stop. “Oh, miss,” he said, “I must go back! Neither of us has been to see Alice, and I haven't for more than a week! Think of her lying there, expecting and expecting, and no one coming! It's just the history of the world! I must go back!” He would not have said so much but that Barbara sat regarding him without response of word or look, appearing not to heed him. He began to wonder. “Alice can't be dead!” he thought with himself, “She was pretty well when I saw her last!” “She is gone,” said Barbara quietly, and the thought just discarded returned on Richard with a sickening clearness. He stood and stared. Barbara saw him turn white, and understood his mistake--so terrible to one who had no hope of ever again seeing a departed friend. “She went home to her mother yesterday,” she said. Richard gave a great sigh of relief. “I thought she was dead!” he answered, “--and I had not been so good to her as I might have been!”