There was, of course, nothing for me to do, save to kill time; I was allowed to wander about as I liked. Yet there was in me an insane desire to see the girl--to watch this new Barbara that was to me the old Barbara come alive again. I hung about, foolishly enough, on the chance of seeing her--watched her when presently she went out of the house and started for a walk. She was so much to me, and I desired so strongly to watch over her, that I found myself following, perhaps with the fear that some harm might come to her, and that I might be able to prevent it. I had meant, of course, to keep out of her way; I had not intended that she should see me. But as I was going on eagerly to turn the corner of a wall round which she had gone, I came face to face with her; she was turning back, and so had met me. I stood shamed and foolish before her. "Tinman! Were you following me?" I could not lie to her; I raised my eyes pleadingly to hers, and stammered that I had followed her from the house. "But why? Were you spying upon me?" She drew herself up, and looked at me scornfully; I trembled before her like a beaten dog. "I should have remembered that you are the servant of that man," she said. I had almost flung myself at her feet; I know that I stretched out my hands to her, and clasped them in my frantic eagerness to make her understand. "Don't think that--don't believe it!" I exclaimed. "You don't understand--and I may not tell you; but I am your friend. If I could tell you what is in this poor bruised and broken heart of mine, you would understand, and would pity me and trust me. I am your friend--and his." "His?" She looked at me with a sudden frown of astonishment. "The boy you love--the boy who meets you sometimes in secret----" "Ah! you have been spying, then!" she cried, drawing away from me. "No--no--no; indeed I have not. It was by the merest accident I saw you meet him in the woods, and no living soul knows of that but myself. If I could only make you trust me!" She came nearer to me--looked at me closely. "Who are you, or what were you?" she asked in a whisper. "You are no servant; you speak like a gentleman. Who are you--and what have you to do with me, or--or with any one else that concerns me?" "I am one who died long, long ago," I said to her. "If you think of me at all, think of me as some one who long ago touched such a story as yours--such a story of love and hope and faith, all broken and cast in the dust. Think of me as some one who loved--and lost what I loved; think of me as some one who, seeing you as young and fair and bright as the woman I loved, would give the very heart out of me to see you happy. As God's above me, I'm your friend!"