She ran upstairs to her dressing-room, Madame Vine following her with her reproachful eyes.  “Why should she care?” thought madame.  “It is not her child.”

Throwing her parasol on one chair, her gloves on another, down sat Barbara to her writing-table.  “I will write to him; I will have him here, if it be but for an hour!” she passionately exclaimed.  “This shall be, so far, cleared up.  I am as sure as sure can be that it is that man.  The very action Richard described!  And there was the diamond ring!  For better, for worse, I will send for him; but it will not be for worse if God is with us.”

She dashed off a letter, getting up ere she had well begun it, to order her carriage round again.  She would trust none but herself to put it in the post.

“MY DEAR MR. SMITH—­We want you here.  Something has arisen that it is necessary to see you upon.  You can get here by Saturday.  Be in these grounds, near the covered walk, that evening at dusk.  Ever yours,

“B.”

And the letter was addressed to Mr. Smith, of some street in Liverpool, the address furnished by Richard.  Very cautions to see, was Barbara.  She even put “Mr. Smith,” inside the letter.

“Now stop,” cried Barbara to herself, as she was folding it.  “I ought to send him a five pound note, for he may not have the means to come; and I don’t think I have one of that amount in the house.”

She looked in her secretaire.  Not a single five-pound note.  Out of the room she ran, meeting Joyce, who was coming along the corridor.

“Do you happen to have a five-pound note, Joyce?”

“No, ma’am, not by me.”

“I dare say Madame Vine has.  I paid her last week, and there were two five-pound notes amongst it.”  And away went Barbara to the gray parlor.

“Could you lend me a five-pound note, Madame Vine?  I have occasion to enclose one in a letter, and find I do not possess one.”

Madame Vine went to her room to get it.  Barbara waited.  She asked William what Dr. Martin said.

“He tried my chest with—­oh, I forget what they call it—­and he said I must be a brave boy and take my cod-liver oil well, and port wine, and everything I liked that was good.  And he said he should be at West Lynne next Wednesday afternoon; and I am to go there, and he would call in and see me.”

“Where are you to meet him?”

“He said, either at papa’s office or at Aunt Cornelia’s, as we might decide.  Madame fixed it for papa’s office, for she thought he might like to see Dr. Martin.  I say, mamma.”

“What?” asked Barbara.

“Madame Vine has been crying ever since.  Why should she?”

“I’m sure I don’t know.  Crying!”

“Yes but she wipes her eyes under her spectacles, and thinks I don’t see her.  I know I am very ill, but why should she cry for that?”

“Nonsense, William.  Who told you you were very ill?”