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Barbara Clay lived all alone in a little cottage toward the lower end of the small village of R. Just opposite her humble home, stood the church wherein she worshipped, and every Sabbath, rain or shine, summer or winter, found her in her accustomed seat, listening intently to the good words which fell from Parson Downs' lips. She was apparently somewhere in the vicinity of forty years of age, and although she bore her years lightly, and the rippling brown hair was guiltless of a silver thread, her dark blue eyes were filled with a tender, mournful expression, and the sensitive mouth wore a look of subdued sorrow. She had come a perfect stranger nineteen years before, into this secluded village, and purchased the cottage which had ever since been her home. She mingled but little with her neighbors, and with the exception of attending church, was seldom seen away from home, unless it was to care for the sick and dying. The simple old-fashioned villagers respected and loved her. People said she had a story, but what it was they did not undertake to tell.

One dark, rainy afternoon in April, the lumbering yellow stage-coach drew up in front of the tavern, and the driver alighting from his elevated seat, approached his only passenger and said, with a low bow, "Where did you wish to stop, Miss; I believe you didn't state any partikler place, so I brought you to the tavern." A sweet, girlish voice replied, "I wish to know if a lady by the name of Barbara Clay resides in this village." "Yes, ma'am, she does, " replied the driver. "Then, if you please, I will go directly to her home." The driver hastened back to his place, and gathering up his reins, drove on, leaving the knot of villagers in front of the tavern gazing in surprise after the departing vehicle. The coming of a young lady into their midst, and to see Barbara Clay of all persons, was an event, and it was something to wonder over and talk about, so when the stage-coach came slowly back again the driver found quite a crowd awaiting him, eager for a description of the stranger. "Don't know nothin 'bout her; I didn't see her face for she wore a vail over it. She got aboard the stage at Day's tavern, that's all I know about her." This explanation, as may be supposed, did not go far toward allaying their curiosity. In the meantime the young girl who had allighted from the coach in front of Miss Clay's cottage, stood patiently awaiting an answer to her repeated knocks upon the door. She was short and slight, with brown hair and dark blue eyes. Her dress was a rusty black alpaca; a coarse heavy black shawl and black straw hat trimmed with black ribbon, completed her attire. She had removed her well-worn vail, which she held in one slender ungloved hand; in the other she carried a small travelling bag. At length the door opened and Miss Barbara stood before her. "Are you Miss Barbara Clay?" questioned the girl, raising her eyes to the lady's face. "I am—will you please walk in," replied the lady, not without some surprise, as she turned and led the way into her small, neat sitting-room, where she placed a chair for her guest, and seated herself near by. As she did so her eyes fell upon a ring which the girl wore upon the third finger of her left hand. It was an old-fashioned ring, with two hearts linked together, and the initials B and C engraved beneath. She had in her possession a ring precisely like it, although for nearly twenty years she had not worn it.