“But, mammy dear,” said Barbara, “what
will papa say?”
“Poof!” returned her mother. “I’ve
known him too long to care what he says!”
“I don’t like offending him,” returned
Barbara.
“Don’t mention him again, child, or I’ll
turn him loose on your bookbinder. Am I to put
my own ewe-lamb to the same torture I had to suffer
by marrying him! God forbid I When you’re
happy with your husband, perhaps you’ll think
of me sometimes and say, ’My mother did it!
She wasn’t a good woman, but she loved her Bab!’”
A passionate embrace followed. Barbara left the
room with a happy heart, and went—not to
her own to brood on her love, but to her brother’s,
whose feeble voice she heard calling her. Upon
him her gladness overflowed.
MISS BROWN.
The same evening Barbara rode to the smithy, in the
hope of hearing some news of Richard from his grandfather.
The old man was busy at the anvil when he heard Miss
Brown’s hoofs on the road. He dropped his
hammer, flung the tongs on the forge, and leaving
the iron to cool on the anvil, went to meet her.
“How do you do, grandfather?” said Barbara,
with unconscious use of the appellation.
Simon was well pleased to be called grandfather, but
too politic and too well bred to show his pleasure.
“As well as hard work can help me to. How
are you yourself, my pretty?” returned Simon.
“As well as nothing to do—except
nursing poor Mark—will let me,” she
answered. “Please can you tell me anything
about Richard yet?”
“Can you keep a secret, honey?” rejoined
Simon. “I ain’t sure as I’m
keeping strict within the law, but if I didn’t
think you fit, I shouldn’t say a word.”
“Don’t tell me, if it be anything I ought
to tell if I knew it.”
“If you can show me you ought to tell any one,
I will release you from your promise. But perhaps
you feel you ought to tell everything to your mother?”
“No, not other people’s secrets.
But I think I won’t have it. I don’t
like secrets. I’m frightened at them.”
“Then I’ll tell you at my own risk, for
you’re the right sort to trust, promise or no
promise. I only hope you will not tell without
letting me know first; because then I might have to
do something else by way of—what do they
call it when you take poison, and then take something
to keep it from hurting you?—Richard’s
gone to college!”
Bab slid from Miss Brown’s back, flung her arms,
with the bridle on one of them, round the blacksmith’s
neck, and, heedless of Miss Brown’s fright,
jumped up, and kissed the old man for the good news.
“Miss! miss! your clean face!” cried the
blacksmith.
“Oh Richard! Richard! you will be
happy now!” she said, her voice trembling with
buried tears. “—But will he ever shoe
Miss Brown again, grandfather?”
