brighter; it lighted the far-stretching garden, it illuminated even the
weathercock aloft, it shone upon the portico, and upon one who appeared
in it. Stealing to the portico from the house had come Barbara Hare, her
eyes strained in dread affright on the grove of trees at the foot of the
garden. What was it that had stepped out of that groove of trees, and
mysteriously beckoned to her as she stood at the window, turning her
heart to sickness as she gazed? Was it a human being, one to bring
more evil to the house, where so much evil had already fallen? Was it a
supernatural visitant, or was it but a delusion of her own eyesight? Not
the latter, certainly, for the figure was now emerging again, motioning
to her as before; and with a white face and shaking limbs, Barbara
clutched her shawl around her and went down that path in the moonlight.
The beckoning form retreated within the dark recess as she neared it,
and Barbara halted.

"Who and what are you?" she asked, under her breath. "What do you want?"

"Barbara," was the whispered, eager answer, "don't you recognize me?"

Too surely she did--the voice at any rate--and a cry escaped her,
telling more of sorrow than of joy, though betraying both. She
penetrated the trees, and burst into tears as one in the dress of a
farm laborer caught her in his arms. In spite of his smock-frock and his
straw-wisped hat, and his false whiskers, black as Erebus, she knew him
for her brother.

"Oh, Richard! Where have you come from? What brings you here?"

"Did you know me, Barbara?" was his rejoinder.