Barbara; of loving her; of feeling a sort of possession of her, though
he did not yet dream of such a thing as ever being to her more than he
now was,--a valued friend. There were so many years, and an experience
of life that counted far more than years, between them!

He had listened to his sister's conversation with Miss Sherman on the
way from Pompeii to Sorrento with an exultation which it would have been
difficult for him to account for. He gloried in the sweet unselfishness,
the simple goodness of the young girl. "My little Barbara," his heart
sang; and full of this emotion when they reached Sorrento, he allowed
the two ladies to go alone into the hotel, while he waited impatiently
to look into Barbara's face and to feel the touch of her hand.

But what a change! What could have wrought it? Before this, she had
always met his look with such frank sympathy! As the days passed on
without change, and his eyes, more than any others, noticed the struggle
to conceal her unhappiness, the mystery deepened.




Chapter XVII.

Robert Sumner is Imprudent.

_Our indiscretion sometimes serves us well--
When our deep plots do pall; and that should teach us,
There's a divinity that shapes our ends,
Rough-hew them how we will._