She followed them to the house—­she glanced in at the windows of the drawing-room.  Lights and fire were in the room, but the curtains and windows were not closed for the night, for it was through those windows that Mr. Carlyle and his wife had passed in and out on their visits to the covered walk.  There they were, alone in their happiness, and she stopped to glance in upon it.  Lord Mount Severn had departed for London, to be down again early in the week.  The tea was on the table, but Barbara had not begun to make it.  She sat on the sofa, by the fire, her face, with its ever loving gaze upon it, turned up to her husband’s.  He stood near, was talking with apparent earnestness, and looking down at Barbara.  Another moment, and a smile crossed his lips, the same sweet smile so often bent upon her in the bygone days.  Yes, they were together in their unclouded happiness, and she—­she turned away toward her own lonely sitting-room, sick and faint at heart.

Ball & Treadman, as the brass plate on their office door intimated, were conveyancers and attorneys at law.  Mr. Treadman, who attended chiefly to the conveyancing, lived at the office, with his family.  Mr. Ball, a bachelor, lived away; Lawyer Ball, West Lynne styled him.  Not a young bachelor; midway, he may have been between forty and fifty.  A short stout man, with a keen face and green eyes.  He took up any practice that was brought to him—­dirty odds and ends that Mr. Carlyle would not have touched with his toe—­but, as that gentleman had remarked, he could be honest and true upon occasion, and there was no doubt that he would be so to Richard Hare.  To his house, on Monday morning, early, so as to catch him before he went out, proceeded Mr. Carlyle.  A high respect for Mr. Carlyle had Lawyer Ball, as he had had for his father before him.  Many a good turn had the Carlyles done him, if only helping him and his partner to clients whom they were too fastidious to take up.  But the two, Mr. Carlyle and Lawyer Ball did not rank alike, though their profession was the same; Lawyer Ball knew that they did not, and was content to feel humble.  The one was a received gentleman; the other was a country attorney.

Lawyer Ball was at breakfast when Mr. Carlyle was shown in.

“Halloo, Carlyle!  You are here betimes.”

“Sit still; don’t disturb yourself.  Don’t ring; I have breakfasted.”

“The most delicious pate de foie,” urged Lawyer Ball, who was a regular gourmand.  “I get ’em direct from Strasbourg.”

Mr. Carlyle resisted the offered dainty with a smile.  “I have come on business,” said he, “not to feast.  Before I enter upon it, you will give me your word, Ball, that my communication shall be held sacred, in the event of your not consenting to pursue it further.”

“Certainly I will.  What business is it?  Some that offends the delicacy of the Carlyle office?” he added, with a laugh.  “A would-be client whom you turn over to me in your exclusiveness?”