"What do you care for me?
If I go under the sod to-morrow," stamping it with her foot, "you have your wife to care for; what am I ?" "Hush!" he interposed, glancing round, more mindful for her than she was for herself.
"Hush, yes! You would like me to hush; what is my misery to you?
I would rather be in my grave, Archibald Carlyle, than endure the life I have led since you married her.

My pain is greater than I well know how to bear." "I cannot affect to misunderstand you," he said, feeling more at a nonplus than he had felt for many a day, and heartily wishing the whole female creation, save Isabel, somewhere.

"But my dear Barbara.

I never gave you cause to think I--that I--cared for you more than I did." "Never gave me cause!" she gasped.

"When you have been coming to our house constantly, almost like my shadow; when you gave me this" dashing open her mantle, and holding up the locket to his view; "when you have been more intimate with me than a brother." "Stay, Barbara.