"Why, Barnabas!" said the Duchess, very gently, "dear boy--what is it?

Ah! you've found it then, already--your sachet? Though indeed it

looks more like a pudding-bag--a very small one, of course. Oh, dear

me! but you're not a very good needlewoman, are you, Barnabas?

Neither am I--I always prick my fingers dreadfully. There--let me

open it for you--so! Now, while I hold it, see what is inside."

Then, wondering, Barnabas slipped a clumsy thumb and finger into the

little bag and behold the faded wisp had become transfigured and

bloomed again in all its virgin freshness. For in his hand there lay

a great, scarlet rose, as sweet and fresh and fragrant as

though--for all the world as though it had been plucked that very

morning.

"Ah, no, no, no," cried the Duchess, reading his look, "it was no

hand of mine worked the transformation, dear Barnabas."

"But," murmured drowsy Barnabas, speaking with an effort--

"it--was--dead--long ago--?"

"Yet behold it is alive again!" said the Duchess. "And oh, Barnabas

dear, if a withered, faded wisp may bloom again--so may a woman's

faith and love. There, there, dear boy! Close your eyes and go to

sleep again."

So, being very weary, Barnabas closed his eyes and, with the touch

of her small, cool fingers in his hair, fell fast asleep.

II Now as Barnabas lay thus, lost in slumber, he dreamed a dream. He

had known full many sleeping visions and fancies of late, but, of

them all, surely none had there been quite like this.

For it seemed to him that he was lying out amid the green, dewy

freshness of Annersley Wood. And as he lay there, grievously hurt, lo!

there came one hasting, light-footed to him through the green like

some young nymph of Arcady or Goddess of the Wood, one for whom he

seemed to have been waiting long and patiently, one as sweet and

fresh and fair as the golden morning and tender as the Spirit of

Womanhood.

And, for that he might not speak or move because of his hurt, she

leaned above him and her hands touched him, hands very soft, and cool,

and gentle, upon his brow, upon his cheek; and every touch was a

caress.

Slowly, slowly her arms came about him in a warm, clinging embrace,

arms strong and protecting that drew his weary head to the swell of

a bosom and pillowed it sweetly there. And clasping him thus, she

sighed over him and wept, though very silently, and stooped her lips

to him to kiss his brow, his slumberous eyes, and, last of all, his

mouth.

So, because of this dream, Barnabas lay in a deep and utter content,

for it seemed that Happiness had come to him after all, and of its

own accord. But, in a while, he stirred and sighed, and presently

opened dreamy eyes, and thus it chanced that he beheld the door of

his chamber, and the door was quivering as though it had but just

closed. Then, as he lay watching it, sleepy-eyed, it opened again,

slowly and noiselessly, and John Peterby entered softly, took a step

towards the bed, but, seeing Barnabas was awake, stopped, and so

stood there very still.




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