Last of all he rung the hand of Mr. Carlyle.  The latter went outside with him for an instant, and their leave-taking was alone.

Barbara returned to the chamber he had quitted.  She felt that she must indulge in a few moments sobbing; Joyce was there, but Barbara was sobbing when she entered it.

“It is hard for him, Miss Barbara, if he is really innocent.”

Barbara turned her streaming eyes upon her. “If! Joyce do you doubt that he is innocent?”

“I quite believe him to be so now, miss.  Nobody could so solemnly assert what was not true.  The thing at present will be to find that Captain Thorn.”

“Joyce!” exclaimed Barbara, in excitement, seizing hold of Joyce’s hands, “I thought I had found him; I believed in my own mind that I knew who he was.  I don’t mind telling you, though I have never before spoken of it; and with one thing or other, this night I feel just as if I should die—­as if I must speak.  I thought it was Sir Francis Levison.”

Joyce stared with all her eyes.  “Miss Barbara!”

“I did.  I have thought it ever since the night that Lady Isabel went away.  My poor brother was at West Lynne then—­he had come for a few hours, and he met the man Thorn walking in Bean lane.  He was in evening dress, and Richard described a peculiar motion of his—­the throwing off of his hair from his brow.  He said his white hand and his diamond ring glittered in the moonlight.  The white hand, the ring, the motion—­for he was always doing it—­all reminded me of Captain Levison; and from that hour until to-day I believed him to be the man Richard saw.  To-day Richard tells me that he knows Sir Francis Levison, and that he and Thorn are intimate.  What I think now is, that this Thorn must have paid a flying visit to the neighborhood that night to assist Captain Levison in the wicked work that he had on hand.”

“How strange it all sounds!” uttered Joyce.

“And I never could tell my suspicions to Mr. Carlyle!  I did not like to mention Francis Levison’s name to him.”

Barbara soon returned down stairs.  “I must be going home,” she said to Mr. Carlyle.  “It is turned half-past seven, and mamma will be uneasy.”

“Whenever you like, Barbara.”

“But can I not walk?  I am sorry to take out your ponies again, and in this storm.”

Mr. Carlyle laughed.  “Which would feel the storm the worst, you or the ponies?”

But when Barbara got outside, she saw that it was not the pony carriage, but the chariot that was in waiting for her.  She turned inquiringly to Mr. Carlyle.

“Did you think I should allow you to go home in an open carriage to-night, Barbara?”

“Are you coming also?”

“I suppose I had better,” he smiled.  “To see that you and the carriage do not get fixed in a rut.”

Barbara withdrew to her corner of the chariot, and cried silently.  Very, very deeply did she mourn the unhappy situation—­the privations of her brother; and she knew that he was one to feel them deeply.  He could not battle with the world’s hardships so bravely as many could.  Mr. Carlyle only detected her emotion as they were nearing the Grove.  He leaned forward, took her hand, and held it between his.