He would not have been condemned to lead an idle life for the world; but there was no necessity for his being always at it.  Mr. Dill made as good a principal as he did, and—­if length of service and experience might be counted—­a better one.  He could safely be left to manage during the time it would be necessary for him, Mr. Carlyle, to be in London.  He would rather represent West Lynne than any other spot on the face of the earth, no matter what might be the other’s importance; and, as West Lynne was now in want of a member, perhaps his opportunity had come.  That he would make a good and efficient public servant, he believed; his talents were superior, his oratory persuasive, and he had the gift of a true and honest spirit.  That he would have the interest of West Lynne, at heart was certain, and he knew that he should serve his constituents to the very best of his power and ability.  They knew it also.

Before Mr. Carlyle had reached East Lynne, he had decided that it should be.

It was a fine spring evening.  The lilac was in bloom, the hedges and trees were clothed in their early green, and all things seemed full of promise.  Even Mr. Carlyle’s heart was rejoicing in the prospect opened to it; he was sure he should like a public life; but in the sanguine moments of realization or of hope, some dark shade will step in to mar the brightness.

Barbara stood at the drawing-room window watching for him.  Not in her was the dark shade; her dress was a marvel of vanity and prettiness, and she had chosen to place on her fair hair a dainty headdress of lace—­as if her hair required any such ornament!  She waltzed up to Mr. Carlyle when he entered, and saucily held up her face, the light of love dancing in her bright blue eyes.

“What do you want?” he provokingly asked, putting his hands behind him, and letting her stand there.

“Oh, well—­if you won’t say good-evening to me, I have a great mind to say you should not kiss me for a week, Archibald.”

He laughed.  “Who would be punished by that?” whispered he.

Barbara pouted her pretty lips, and the tears positively came into her eyes.  “Which is as much as to say it would be no punishment to you.  Archibald, don’t you care for me?”

He threw his arms around her and clasped her to his heart, taking plenty of kisses then.  “You know whether I care not,” he fondly whispered.

But now, will you believe that that unfortunate Lady Isabel had been a witness to this?  Well, it was only what his greeting to her had once been.  Her pale face flushed scarlet, and she glided out of the room again as softly as she had entered it.  They had not seen her.  Mr. Carlyle drew his wife to the window, and stood there, his arms round her waist.

“Barbara, what should you say to living in London for a few months out of the twelve?”

“London?  I am very happy where I am.  Why should you ask me that?  You are not going to live in London?”