Scarcely had Mr. Wingfold left the room, when in came Barbara in her riding-habit, with the glow of joyous motion upon her face, for she had just ridden from Mortgrange. “How do you do, mamma?” she said, but did not come within a couple of yards of her. “I've had such a ride--as straight as any crow could fly, between the two stations! I never could hit the line before. But I got a country-fellow to point me out a landmark or two, and here I am in just half the time I should have taken by the road! Such jumps!” “You're a madcap!” said her mother. “You'll be brought home on a shutter some day! Mark my words, Bab! You'll see!--or at least I shall; you'll be past seeing! But it don't matter; it's what we're made for! Die or be killed, it's all one! I don't care!” “I do though, mamma! I don't want to be killed just yet--and I don't mean to be! But I must have a second horse! I begin to suspect Miss Brown of treating me like a child. She takes care of me! I mean to let her see what _I_ can do if _she's_ up to it!” “You'll do nothing of the kind! I'll have her shot if you go after any of your old pranks! And, while I think of it, Bab--your father has set his heart on your marrying Mr. Lestrange: I can see it perfectly, and I won't have it! If I hear of anything of that sort between you, I'll set a heavy foot on it.--How long have you been there this time?” “A week.--But why shouldn't I marry Mr. Lestrange if I like?” “Because your father has set his heart on it, I tell you! Isn't that enough, you tiresome little wretch? I _will not_ have it--not if you break your heart over it!--There!” Barbara burst out in a laugh that rang like a bronze bell. “Break my heart for Mr. Lestrange! There's not a man in the world I would break my little finger for! But my heart! that is too funny! You needn't be uneasy, mamma; I don't like Arthur Lestrange one bit, and I wouldn't marry him if you and papa too wanted me. Oh, such a proper young man! He doesn't think me fit company for his sister!” “He said so! and you didn't give him a cut over the eyes with your whip? My God!” “Gracious, no! He never says anything half so amusing! He's scorchingly polite! I would sooner fall in love with the bookbinder!” “The bookbinder? Who's that? You mean the tutor, I suppose! I'm not up to the slang of this old brute of a country!” “No, mamma; there is a man binding--or mending rather, the books in the library. He's going to teach me to shoe Miss Brown! Papa wouldn't like me to marry a blacksmith--I mean a bookbinder--would he?” “Certainly not.” “Then you would, mamma?” said Bab demurely, with two catherine-wheels of fun in her downcast eyes. “If you go to do anything mad now, I'll--” “Don't strain your innocent invention, mammy! I think I'll take Mr. Lestrange! Better anger one than both of you!” “Tease me any more with your nonsense, and I'll set your father on you! Be off with you!” CHAPTER XX. _BARBARA AND HER CRITICS._