The Indianapolis journal., 1902-09-07

One by one, all eight children, save Bar
bara, had left the parent nest. The maid
ems had been given in marriage, and the
sons had found divers spheres of work.
Only Barbara still called the rectory
home, and she treated this pleasant home
somewhat cavalierly, for she was seldom in
it. Mrs. Nesbit still held the reins of rec
tory government absolute monarch, and
Barbara was free to choose her own walk
in life. She had chosen 1T, and only one
person in the world found any fault with
her philanthropic choice, and he had no
legitimate voice at all in the matter.
Her strongly marked personality would
not have been easy to thwart, and her peo-
pie did not attempt to thwart her. She
wanted work. Work was necessity Of ex-
istence. She could no more live without
work than could her mother before her, and
she left the rectory in search of 1t.
Just now she was "out of work" She had
come home to rest. Her people at the rec
tory did not grumble when she left them,
but they welcomed her warmly when she
returned. They were busy people, but they
cosseted and petted their youngest born
when she, as a bird of passage. came back
to the parent nest.
She had come down from grimy, sitting,
August London, from August slums, In the
grilling heat. She had been struggling to
stay the slum current Of sin and want and
misery with her steadfast hands. She had
got tired, worn with failure; she had painted
for air, tainted with physical strain: she
had come home to recruit her strength, to
renew her energy, to steel her nerves. Her
heart and soul were in unison, and they
were both set on this healing work Of hers
Reculer pour mieux sauter-that was why
she was in the rectory garden, i0ling hap
PLY in the shade of the elms.
That was why she was leaning back In
a lounge chair with the broad trees over
head. That was why she stretched out her
arms and clasped her hands behind her
head and rested, shutting her eyes and
drinking in the fullness of the blessed
country air. which blew on her bare head
and rustled in the leaves above her.
She was resting. She tried to forget the
squalor, vice and wretchedness which she
had so lately Quilted. She wanted hel
memory to lie fallow for while, so that
body and soul might rest. She would be.
lieve that life was cool, pure, beautiful
full of rest and peace, like this summer day
in the rectory garden. She would not shud.
der at remembrance. nor fret because OF
the necessity for rest.
She was tired out, and her thought:
turned dream-like and wandered-wanderet
presently into the genuine dreams of sleeI
Into the long dreams of an overwrough
frame
She was a healthy-minded, robust woman
and the sleep did her good. 1t refreshed her
Color warmed her lips and played faintl!
in her cheeks.
an unnannounced rectory guest, with al
expectant face and an assured manner o
approach, as though confident of welcome
He smiled when he saw Barbara, slack
ened his pace, treading delicately. but di
recting his course straight to her uncon
scious side.
Here was her old friend, Roddie st. Johl
Sir Roderic now-with his dark eyes worl
and world weary, his mouth tired, dissatis
fed; his handsome face old for his thirt.
years. He had lived hard enough in hi
own way as hard as his sleeping frien'
here had done in hers.
They had both sought pleasure accordin,
to their tastes, he was in the habit of tell
ing her, and WEAKNESS Of the flesh was tn
result. He was sick of everything in tn
world, everything save this unconscious
battling. preoccupied, cold-hearted Bar
bara.
She was not young, nor was she beautiful
but her face haunted him-had haunted hin
for years, had come between him and pleas
ure, had intervened between him and mat
rimony, had intervened between him an
sin many a time.
He had lots of money plenty Of friends
sufficient brains. He had all he wanted II
the world, everything-except the desire o
his life-except Barbara. She was obdu
| rate.
At one time he had not been sure Of hi
| love for Barbara. Later, when its realit,
| made itself felt, alarmed at the position. h
| had shaken himself free from her influence
| He had banished all memory Of her. II
| had been at pains to forget her. He ha
| been impatient of her dominion. Now tha
was changed. It was his fate to low
Barbara This face of hers was always be
| fore him. He knew 1t by heart, those pal
| eyes of hers, family blue, earnest, solemn
were the only eyes in whose light he wishe
| to be approved. What good was dear lif
| itself without Barbara?
"She was a woman, therefore, to be won.
| He would plead with her; she was gracious
| gentle, kind. He would humble himsel
| as he had never done before.
In his early manhood his fancy for he
bad been unstable. 1t had wandered. Their
had been other faces easier of possession
| than Barbara's.
That last wooing of his had been master
| full, overbearing. He had taken it 70
| granted that If he threw her his glove, sh
would pick 1t up.
She had not done so. She had left
| where it lay.
Twice he had asked her to marry him
| twice she had said him nay. There wa
luck in odd numbers. The third was tn
lucky time; he would do it again.
He was In grim earnest now. Barbar
| and her people had dined at his house tn
preceding evening. Barbara had Wake
and talked with him later in the moonligh
on the terrace.
Bless her, how he loved her. her rich 10,
voice. her gentle seriousness, her self-re
| lance! How calm he felt under her In
| fiuence. how we'll she suited him, wha
weight her judgment had for him. Ho,
wisely she would rule his household!
There were other women ready enough t
rule him and his household. A dozen time
! In the last few years he had been within a
ace of finding mistress for his house, an
| this little pale-faced woman, sleeping her