“And you cried without knowing where she was gone?” said Barbara, turning almost sick with apprehension.
“Yes, miss,” affirmed the miserable boy.
“Is she dead?”
“No, miss, she ain't dead; she's sold!”
The words were not yet out of his mouth when he turned and bolted.
“That's my gentleman-papa!” said Barbara to herself before she could help it. Had she been any girl but Barbara, she would have cried like the boy.
Not once from that moment did she allude to Miss Brown in the hearing of father or servant.
One day her mother asked her why she never rode, and she told her. The wrath of the mother was like that of a tigress. She sprang to her feet, and bounded to the door. But when she reached it, Barbara was between her and the handle.
“Mother! mother dear!” she pleaded.
The mother took her by the shoulders, and thought to fling her across the room. But she was not so strong as she had been, and she found the little one hard as nails: she could not move her an inch.