there, Bezant?’ I asked.  ‘Amusing himself and getting into mischief,’ was the answer; ’nothing very bad, only the random scrapes of young men.’  ’Was he often on horseback, riding to a distance?’ was my next question.  ’Yes, that he was,’ replied Bezant; ’none more fond of galloping across the country than he; I used to tell him he’d ride his horse’s tail off.’  Now, Mr. Archibald, what do you think?” concluded the old clerk; “and so far as I could make out, this was about the very time of the tragedy at Hallijohn’s.”

“Think?” replied Mr. Carlyle.  “What can I think but that it is the same man.  I am convinced of it now.”

And, leaning back into his chair, he fell into a deep reverie, regardless of the parchments that lay before him.

The weeks went on—­two or three—­and things seemed to be progressing backward, rather than forward—­if that’s not Irish.  Francis Levison’s affairs—­that is, the adjustment of them—­did not advance at all.

Another thing that may be said to be progressing backward, for it was going on fast to bad, instead of good, was the jealousy of Lady Isabel.  How could it be otherwise, kept up, as it was, by Barbara’s frequent meetings with Mr. Carlyle, and by Captain Levison’s exaggerated whispers of them.  Discontented, ill at ease with herself and with everybody about her, Isabel was living now in a state of excitement, a dangerous resentment against her husband beginning to rise up in her heart.  That very day—­the one of Captain Levison’s visit to Levison Park—­in driving through West Lynne in the pony carriage, she had come upon her husband in close converse with Barbara Hare.  So absorbed were they, that they never saw her, though her carriage passed close to the pavement where they stood.

On the morning following this, as the Hare family were seated at breakfast, the postman was observed coming toward the house.  Barbara sprang from her seat to the open window, and the man advanced to her.

“Only one miss.  It is for yourself.”

“Who is it from?” began the justice, as Barbara returned to her chair.  In letters as in other things, he was always curious to know their contents, whether they might be addressed to himself or not.

“It is from Anne, papa,” replied Barbara, as she laid the letter by her side on the table.

“Why don’t you open it and see what she says?”

“I will, directly; I am just going to pour out some more tea for mamma.”

Finally the justice finished his breakfast, and strolled out into the garden.

Barbara opened her letter; Mrs. Hare watched her movements and her countenance.  She saw the latter flush suddenly and vividly, and then become deadly pale; she saw Barbara crush the note in her hand when read.

“Oh, mamma!” she uttered.

The flush of emotion came also into Mrs. Hare’s delicate cheeks.  “Barbara, is it bad news?”

“Mamma, it—­it—­is about Richard,” she whispered, glancing at the door and window, to see that none might be within sight or hearing.  “I never thought of him; I only fancied Anne might be sending me some bit of news concerning her own affairs.  Good Heavens!  How fortunate—­how providential that papa did not see the paper fall; and that you did not persist in your inquiries.  If he—­”