“How very poorly your mamma looks!” Mr. Carlyle exclaimed to Barbara, when they were beyond the hearing of Mrs. Hare, who was busy talking with Lady Isabel and Miss Carlyle.  “And she has appeared so much stronger lately; altogether better.”

“The walk here has fatigued her; I feared it would be too long; so that she looks unusually pale,” replied Barbara.  “But what do you think it is that has upset her again, Mr. Carlyle?”

He turned his inquiring eyes upon Barbara.

“Papa came downstairs this morning, saying mamma was ill, that she had one of her old attacks of fever and restlessness.  I declare, as papa spoke, I thought to myself could mamma have been dreaming some foolish dream again—­for you remember how ill she used to be after them.  I ran upstairs and the first thing that mamma said to me was, that she had had one of those dreadful dreams.”

“I fancied she must have outlived her fear of them; that her own plain sense had come to her aid long ago, showing her how futile dreams are, meaning nothing, even if hers do occasionally touch upon that—­that unhappy mystery.”

“You may just as well reason with a post as reason with mamma when she is suffering from the influence of one of those dreams,” returned Barbara.  “I tried it this morning.  I asked her to call up—­as you observe—­good sense to her aid.  And her reply was, ’How could she help her feelings?  She did not induce the dream by thinking of Richard, or in any other way, and yet it came and shattered her.’  Of course so far, mamma is right, for she cannot help the dreams coming.”

Mr. Carlyle made no immediate reply.  He picked up a ball belonging to one of the children, which lay in his path, and began tossing it gently in his hand.  “It is a singular thing,” he observed, presently, “that we do not hear from Richard.”

“Oh, very, very.  And I know mamma distresses over it.  A few words which she let fall this morning, betrayed it plainly.  I am no believer in dreams,” continued Barbara, “but I cannot deny that these, which take such a hold upon mamma, do bear upon the case in a curious manner—­the one she had last night especially.”

“What was it?” asked Mr. Carlyle.

“She dreamed that the real murderer was at West Lynne.  She thought he was at our house—­as a visitor, she said, or like one making a morning call—­and we, she and I, were conversing with him about the murder.  He wanted to deny it—­to put it on Richard; and he turned and whispered to Otway Bethel, who stood behind his chair.  This is another strange thing,” added Barbara, lifting her blue eyes in their deep earnestness to the face of Mr. Carlyle.

“What is strange?  You speak in enigmas, Barbara.”

“I mean that Otway Bethel should invariably appear in her dreams.  Until that stolen visit of Richard’s we had no idea he was near the spot at the time, and yet he had always made a prominent feature in these dreams.”