“I want to tell you, Barbara, that I’ve married Jennie, and so far, neither of us is sorry. She is a dear little wife, sweet-tempered, and entirely devoted to your humble servant. And I don’t find myself so deucedly uncomfortable in her company as you used to make me feel sometimes. Let me tell you, Barbara, that you’ll never succeed in making any man happy till you get off that high horse of yours and stop trying to run the universe. But I don’t suppose you’ll care for what I say, any more than you cared for me, and I don’t flatter myself that was a little bit. “Just one thing more before I say good-bye for always. If you want to know who your master is, I’ll tell you. _It is old Jarvis._ I knew it all along. But I let you go on deceiving yourself, since you seemed to prefer doing it. You can settle it with him any way you see fit and I shall be satisfied. “With best wishes for your future happiness, I am, my dear Barbara, Yours faithfully. “DAVID WHITCOMB.” Barbara read this letter once; then she thrust it deep down among the burning logs and watched it blaze and shrivel into a black and scarlet shred, which flitted stealthily up the chimney and out of sight, like a wicked wraith. She was still thinking soberly rather than sorrowfully of David, when Jimmy dashed into the room, his yellow hair standing up around his rosy face like a halo as he pulled off his warm cap and threw his books and mittens on the table. “What d’ you think, Barb’ra,” he exulted. “I had a reg’lar zamination in my ’rithm’tic to-day, ’n’ I passed it a hunderd and fifty. My teacher said I did. I did a whole lot o’ zamples an’ wrote out all the sevens an’ eights an’ nines, an’ didn’ mix up seven times nine and eight times eight, or anyfing—I mean any-th-ing.” “You’re home early, aren’t you, precious?” asked Barbara, glancing at the clock. “Yes, ’course I am; I met Mr. Jarvis, Barb’ra. He was drivin’ that horse wiv a short tail, ’n’—’n’ he asked me did I want to get in and drive him, ’n’—’n’ he let me, Barb’ra; ’n’ I don’t believe that horse cares if his tail is short. He’s comin’ in the house now.” “Who—the horse?” asked Barbara, in pretended alarm. “‘Course not!” shouted Jimmy, in fine scorn. “Mr. Jarvis is. He said he was bringin’ you a book to read. I like Mr. Jarvis, don’t you, Barb’ra? _Don’t_ you?” Jarvis himself, entering at the moment, heard the little boy’s insistent question. He stood before the fire, tall and grave, drawing off his gloves and looking keenly at Barbara. She had grown only more beautiful in his eyes, since the day when he had first noticed her youthful loveliness, like a wind-blown spray of blossoms against a dark sky. Now he perceived that something untoward had happened to disturb the quiet friendship which had been slowly growing up between them in the peace of the past months. Her candid eyes avoided his, and a fluttering color came and went in her soft cheeks.