Do you mind ?" They all said they didn't mind at all, and after the cake and milk had been brought in by the little servant, Godfrey Fairfax cleared her throat and began.
"It is a story," she said, "of Roundheads and Cavaliers--a very suitable story to write here, so close to the battlefields of Tewkesbury and Marston Moor.

It is called 'Barbara's Fugitive.' Now listen, my dears." BARBARA'S FUGITIVE On a bright June morning, early in the Protectorate, Colonel Myddelton, followed by a groom, rode through the gates of the old Hall and turned his horse's head towards London.

At the bend in the road, halfway up Sheringham Hill, he stopped a moment and waved his hand in the direction of the house.

A white handkerchief fluttered at an upper window in reply.
"My poor lonely Barbara!" said the Colonel, smiling tenderly as he passed again out of sight of his daughter.
"Dear father!" said Barbara, as the Colonel disappeared from view.

She did not, however, at once leave the window, but remained leaning out, with the warm touch of the sun on her head, drinking in the morning sounds.
The village, half a mile distant, was just visible to Barbara through the trees--red-roofed, compact, the cottages gathering about the church like chickens round the mother hen.