"There's no good bringing tea yet. Your master is out as usual. You know very well I wouldn't begin without him."
Barbara set down the candles and the tea-tray; stood for a minute erect and silent; then cleared her throat, twice, thrice, and came over the room to Dora's side. "My dear," she said, " dont'ee fret! Steven didn't ought to leave you as he does, and I mean to tell him so. I've baked some hot cakes, such as you like, and done you a bit of ham on the grill, and do'ee sit up and make a good tea. There was never a man yet brought home quicker by his wife's keeping an empty stomach and worriting after him."
If the kitchen clock had suddenly broken out into words of human sympathy Dot could scarcely have been more taken aback than by the sound of Barbara's voice, speaking to her in kindness. What should she know of that old heart's passionate love, and passionate jealousy? How guess that in pitying her, Steven's neglected wife, Barbara was but joining issue against the woman whom she looked upon as the common enemy of both—Katharine Fane?
"I am sure I don't feel as if I could eat," said Dot with a gulp; but at that moment the odors of hot cakes and broiled ham came in from the kitchen, and she got down out of her chair. "This damp weather makes me hoarser than ever, and—and my head aches. I don't think I shall ever know what it is to feel well again!"
She did in truth look desperately ill at this moment; as many women, whose good looks depend upon art, do, when art chances to be laid aside. Barbara looked at her long and steadily. "Mrs Steven," said she, "when I first heard of Steven's marrying—yes, and when I first seen you here, and no more suited to farm ways than I should be to sit up on a sofy alongside the Squire's lady—my heart was set—"
"Set against me!" cried Dora, as she hesitated. "I am sure you needn't mind speaking the truth. I am getting to see pretty well how much everybody at Ashcot cares for me!"
"Well, I knew that my poor boy had done a foolish thing by marrying out of his class and out of his religion— there's the truth—and I showed it."
"You did!" cried Dora.
"And now—now, Mrs. Steven," went on Barbara, with a quiver of the lip, "I say, wherever the fault was before marriage, the fault of your unhappiness now will lie at Steven's door! What business has he riding here and there, to hounds one day, coursing the next—at the side of those who should blush to see him there—and you, not married two months, alone, fretting by yourself. In our class of life we've no soft words for those who come in between man and wife—but the gentry's ways—the gentry's ways," said Barbara,
