He was thinking with himself thus, as he walked home, late one Monday night, from the concert, to which had come none of the singing birds of his own forests to meet and make merry with the song-birds of the violins. Like a chaos of music without form and void, the sweet sounds had stormed and billowed against him, and he had left the door of his late paradise hardly in better mood than if it had been the church of the Rev. Theodore Gosport, who for the traditions of men made the word of God of small effect! He was walking westward, with his eyes on the ground, along the broad pavement on the house-side of Piccadilly, lost half in misery, half in thought, when he was stopped by a little crowd about an awning that stretched across the footway. The same instant rose a murmur of admiration, and down the steps from the door came tripping, the very Allegra of motion, the same Barbara to whose mould his being seemed to have shaped itself. He stood silent as death, but something made her cast a look on him, and she saw the large eyes of his suffering fixed on her. She gave a short musical cry, and turning darted through the crowd, leaving her escort at the foot of the steps. “Richard!” she cried, and catching hold of his hand, laid her other hand on his shoulder--then suddenly became aware of the gazing faces, not all pleasant to look upon, that came crowding closer about them. She pulled him toward a brougham that stood at the curbstone. “Jump in,” she whispered. Then turning to the gentleman, who in a bewildered way fancied she had caught a prodigal brother in the crowd, “Good-night, Mr. Cleveland,” she said: “thank you!” One moment Richard hesitated; but he saw that neither place nor time allowed anything but obedience, and when she turned again, he was already seated. “Home!” she said to the coachman as she got in, for she had no attendant. “I must talk fast,” she began, “and so must you; we have not far to go together.--Why did you not write to me?” “I did write.” “Did you!” exclaimed Barbara. “I did indeed.” “Then what could you think of me?” “I thought nothing you would not like me to think. I was sure there was an explanation!” “That of course! You knew that!--But how ill you look!” “It is from not seeing you any more at the concerts,” answered Richard. “Tell me your address, and I will write to you. But do not write to me. When shall you be at the hall again?” “Next Monday. I am there every Monday.” “I shall be there, and will take your answer from your hand in the crush as I come out by the Regent-street door.” She pulled the coachman's string. “Now you must go,” she said. “Thank God I have seen you! Tell me when you write if you know anything of Alice.” She gave him her hand. He got out, closed the door, took off his hat, and stood for minutes uncovered in the cold clear night, hardly sure whether he had indeed been side by side with Barbara, or in a heavenly trance. CHAPTER XLVI. _RICHARD'S DILEMMA._