At his words from beyond that partly closed door,
Barbara made her way blindly to her own room and,
throwing herself face downward on her couch, strove
with clenched hands and throbbing veins to keep her
self control. She must not—she must
not let them know, she whispered to herself—moaning
in pain. She must go to them again in a moment—and
they must not know.
While the woman whom Willard Holmes loved fought for
strength to hide her pain, James Greenfield, in the
other room, was leaning eagerly toward the engineer.
“She has refused you?”
“I have not asked her. But don’t
misunderstand me. What you have told me—what
my friends at home might think or do—could
make no difference. Barbara Worth is worthy any
man’s love; and I love her and would make her
my wife. I would give up even you for her, Uncle
Jim. It’s not that. It’s because
I know that she loves someone else too well to listen
to me.”
WILLARD HOLMES RECEIVES HIS ANSWER.
When Barbara returned to the living room with some
trivial excuse to explain her rather long absence,
she found Holmes determined to go with Mr. Greenfield
to his rooms in the hotel in Kingston.
When she protested he answered: “Really,
Miss Worth, my shoulder troubles me so little that
I am ashamed to offer myself as an invalid; and now
that Uncle Jim is with me I haven’t the shadow
of an excuse for burdening you any longer.”
“I am sorry if I have made you feel that you
were a burden,” she returned with a brave smile.
He answered warmly: “You know I did not
mean to imply that. I shall never forget your
kindness—never.”
Greenfield too expressed his appreciation of her kindness
but she answered the engineer as if she had not heard
the older man. “And I can never thank you
for what you have done for us.”
As they stood on the porch while Greenfield went on
ahead to the buggy, Holmes held out his hand.
“And we are square again?”
“Yes, we are square.”
“Then adios, Senorita.”
“Adios, amigo.”
Bravely she stood watching until the carriage disappeared
down the street. Then she went slowly into the
house to Abe’s room.
The surveyor lay propped up in bed with pillows, looking
quite cheerful. “Well, sister,” was
his greeting; “you have lost one patient and
you are going to lose the other one before long.
I feel like a new man already.”
For a little she made no answer and, as she stood
before him silent, those eyes that were trained to
let nothing escape their notice studied her face and
noted her hands clasped in nervous pain. “Why,
Barbara! What is it, sister? What has gone
wrong?”
At his words the brown eyes filled.
“Barbara!”
She dropped into the chair by the bedside and, throwing
herself toward him, buried her face in her arms in
the pillow by his side, her form shaking with sobs.
