His eyes held her powerfully. “Do you love another man?” “No,” said Barbara faintly. She could not bring herself to uncover her one dead love before those pitiless eyes, while the meadow-larks were calling and answering with such piercing sweetness. David Whitcomb was dead. If she had ever loved him it was as another self in a dim past, growing ever dimmer. “Then,” said the Honorable Stephen Jarvis quietly, “you will marry me.” He broke into a short laugh. “Do you know I couldn’t bear to think of your loving another man? Is that being in love? Tell me, Barbara.” He laughed again softly, as he bent to peer into her averted face. She felt herself yielding, her weak hold on past and future loosening. She did not answer, but her red mouth quivered. He experienced a sudden thrilling desire to touch the fresh innocent lips with his. “It would be curious,” he murmured unsteadily, “if I should learn what love is for the first time. Shall I tell you how old I am, Barbara?” She looked up at him without curiosity. “Well, I’m thirty-seven; and I’ve never loved any woman—I have never loved anything, except money and success. But now—Barbara!” He bent toward her, his cold eyes alive with passion. “No—no!” she cried, shrinking from him in sudden terror. His face stiffened into its accustomed mask. “You’re thinking I’ve waited too long,” he said bitterly, and the curling lash stung the bay horse in the flank. Neither spoke again while the wheels spun dizzily along over the mile of road which brought them to the big stone gate-posts of the Preston farm. He drew up his foaming horse sharply. “I won’t come in,” he said, “if you’ll get out here.” She felt herself vaguely humiliated as she stepped down from the high vehicle without assistance. “Stop!” he ordered as she passed quickly inside, as if in haste to gain shelter. She looked up at him uncertainly, her eyes wide with an emotion akin to terror. “I shall not humiliate myself by coaxing or cajoling you,” he said haughtily. “You are best left alone for the present.” He lifted his hat with a sweeping bow, and the red-wheeled buggy dashed away. Barbara drew a long, struggling sigh. She felt curiously light and free, as if she had made a breathless escape from some grasping hand, outstretched to seize her. The sight of Jimmy running swiftly down the driveway toward her heightened the sensation to almost passionate relief. “Hello, Barb’ra!” shouted the little boy. “I came home from school, an’ you wasn’t here. An’ you can’t guess what I’ve got for you!” The child’s face, glowing rosily with health and mischief, was uplifted to hers. She stooped and kissed it tenderly. “What have you got for me, Jimmy?” “Guess!” “I can’t guess,” she answered soberly. “You’ll have to tell me.” “You ain’t cross wiv me, are you, Barb’ra?” “No, dear, of course I’m not. Why should I be cross? Why, it—it’s a letter! Where did you get it, Jimmy?”