“And who was the murderer—­in your mamma’s dream?” continued Mr. Carlyle, speaking as gravely as though he were upon a subject that men ridicule not.

“She cannot remember, except that he seemed a gentleman, and that we held intercourse with him as such.  Now, that again is remarkable.  We never told her, you know, of our suspicions of Captain Thorn.”

“I think you must be becoming a convert to the theory of dreams yourself, Barbara; you are so very earnest,” smiled Mr. Carlyle.

“No, not to dreams; but I am earnest for my dear brother Richard’s sake.”

“That Thorn does not appear in a hurry again to favor West Lynne with his——­”

Mr. Carlyle paused, for Barbara had hurriedly laid her hand upon his arm, with a warning gesture.  In talking they had wandered across the park to its ornamental grounds, and were now in a quiet path, overshadowed on the other side by a chain of imitation rocks.  Seated astride on the summit of these rocks, right above where Mr. Carlyle and Barbara were standing was Francis Levison.  His face was turned from them and he appeared intent upon a child’s whip, winding leather round its handle.  Whether he heard their footsteps or not, he did not turn.  They quickened their pace, and quitted the walk, bending their steps backward toward the group of ladies.

“Could he have heard what we were saying?” ejaculated Barbara, below her breath.

Mr. Carlyle looked down upon the concerned, flushed cheeks with a smile.  Barbara was so evidently perturbed.  But for a certain episode of their lives, some years ago, he might have soothed her tenderly.

“I think he must have heard a little, Barbara, unless his wits were wool-gathering.  He might not be attending.  What if he did hear?  It is of no consequence.”

“I was speaking, you know, of Captain Thorn—­of his being the murderer.”

“You were not speaking of Richard or his movements, so never mind.  Levison is a stranger to the whole.  It is nothing to him.  If he did hear the name of Thorn mentioned, or even distinguished the subject, it would bear for him no interest—­would go, as the saying runs, ’in at one ear and out at the other.’  Be at rest, Barbara.”

He really did look somewhat tenderly upon her as he spoke—­and they were near enough to Lady Isabel for her to note the glance.  She need not have been jealous:  it bore no treachery to her.  But she did note it; she had noted also their wandering away together, and she jumped to the conclusion that it was premeditated, that they had gone beyond her sight to enjoy each other’s society for a few stolen moments.  Wonderfully attractive looked Barbara that evening, for Mr. Carlyle or any one else to steal away with.  Her tasty, elegant airy summer attire, her bright blue eyes, her charming features, and her damask cheeks!  She had untied the strings of her pretty white bonnet, and was restlessly playing with them, more in thought than nervousness.