"I believe I am tired," said Barbara, with a forced laugh, as she compelled herself to pay some sort of attention. "I don't like the green: I will take the other."

They arrived at home. Barbara got just five minutes alone in her chamber, before the dinner was on the table. All the conclusion she could come to, was, that she could do nothing, save tell the facts to Archibald Carlyle.

How should she contrive to see him? The business might admit of no delay. She supposed she must go to East Lynne that evening: but where would be her excuse for it at home? Puzzling over it, she went down to dinner. During the meal, Mrs. Hare began talking of some silk she had purchased for a mantle. She should have it made like Miss Carlyle's new one: when Miss Carlyle was at the Grove the other day, about Wilson's character, she had offered her the pattern, and she, Mrs. Hare, would send one of the servants up for it after dinner.

66

Oh, mamma, let me go!" burst forth Barbara. And so vehemently spoke she, that the justice paused in his carving, and demanded what ailed her. Barbara made some timid excuse.

"Her eagerness is natural, Richard," smiled Mrs. Hare. "Barbara thinks she shall get a peep at the baby, I expect. All young folks are

fond of babies."

Barbara's face flushed crimson: but she did not contradict the opinion. She could not eat her dinner: she was too full of poor Richard: she played with it, and then sent away her plate, nearly untouched.

"That's through the finery she has been buying," pronounced Justice Hare. "Her head is stuffed up with it.”

No opposition was offered to Barbara's going to East Lynne. She reached it just as their dinner was over. It was for Miss Carlyle she asked.

"Miss Carlyle is not at home, miss. She is spending the day out; and my lady does not receive visitors yet."

It was a sort of checkmate. Barbara was compelled to say she would see Mr. Carlyle. Peter ushered her into the drawing-room, and Mr. Carlyle came to her.

"I am so very sorry to disturb you; to have asked for you," began Barbara, with a burning face, for somehow, a certain evening interview of hers with him, twelve months before, was disagreeably present to her. Never, since that evening of agitation, had Barbara suffered herself to betray emotion to Mr. Carlyle: her manners to him had been calm, courteous, and indifferent. And she now more frequently called him "Mr. Carlyle" than "Archibald."

"Take a seat, take a seat, Barbara."

"I asked for Miss Carlyle," she continued, " for mamma is in want of a pattern that she promised to lend her; but, in point of fact, it was you I wished to see. You remember the Lieutenant Thorn, whom Richard spoke of as being the real criminal ?”

"Yes."

"I think he is at West Lynne."

Mr. Carlyle was aroused to eager interest. "He! That same

Thorn ?"

"It can be no other. Mamma and I were shopping to-day, and I

went out for her bag which she had left in the carriage. While Benjamin was getting it, I saw a stranger coming up the street; a tall, good-looking, dark-haired man, with a conspicuous gold chain and studs. The sun was full upon him, causing the ornaments to shine, especially a diamond ring which he wore, for he had one hand raised to his face. The thought flashed over me, 'That is just like the description Richard gave of the man Thorn.' Why the idea should have occurred to me in that strange manner, I do not know, but it most assuredly did occur: though I did not really suppose him to be the same. Just then I heard him spoken to by some one on the other side the street, it was Otway Bethel, and he called him Captain Thorn."

"This is curious indeed, Barbara. I did not know any stranger was at West Lynne.'

"I saw Mr. Wainwright, and asked him who it was. He said a Captain Thorn, a friend of the Herberts.

A Lieutenant Thorn four or

five years ago, would probably be Captain Thorn now."

Mr. Carlyle nodded, and there was a pause.

"What can be done ?" asked Barbara.

Mr. Carlyle was passing one hand over his brow; it was a habit of his when deep in thought. "It is hard to say what is to be done, Barbara. The description you give of this man certainly tallies with that given by Richard. Did he look like a gentleman ?"

"Very much so. A remarkably aristocratic-looking man, as it struck

me."

Mr. Carlyle again nodded assentingly. He remembered Richard's words, when describing the other: "an out-and-out aristocrat." "Of course, Barbara, the first thing must be to try and ascertain whether it is the same," he observed. "If we find that it is, then we must deliberate upon future measures. I will see what I can pick up, and let you know."

Barbara rose. Mr. Carlyle escorted her across the hall, and then strolled down the park by her side, deep in the subject; and quite unconscious that Lady Isabel's jealous eyes were watching them from her dressing-room window.

"You say he seemed intimate with Otway Bethel ?"

"As to being intimate, I cannot say. Otway Bethel spoke as though he knew him."

"This must have caused excitement to Mrs. Hare."

"You forget, Archibald, that mamma was not told anything about Thorn," was the answer of Barbara. "The uncertainty would have worried her to death. All Richard said to her was, that he was innocent, that it was a stranger who did the deed, and she asked for no particulars: she has implicit faith in Richard's truth."

"True; I did forget," replied Mr. Carlyle. "I wish we could find out some one who knew the other Thorn: to ascertain that they were the same would be a great point gained."

He went as far as the park gates with Barbara, shook hands, and wished her good evening. Scarcely had she departed, when Mr. Carlyle saw two gentlemen advancing from the opposite direction, in one of whom he recognised Tom Herbert, and the other-instinct told him— was Captain Thorn. He waited till they came up.

"If this isn't lucky, seeing you," cried Mr. Tom Herbert, who was a free-and-easy sort of gentleman, the second son of a brother justice of Mr. Hare's. "I wish to goodness you'd give us a draught of your cider, Carlyle. We went up to Beauchamp's for a stroll, but found them all out; and I'm awfully thirsty. Captain Thorn, Carlyle."

Mr. Carlyle invited them to his house, and ordered in refreshments. Young Herbert coolly threw himself into an arm-chair and lit a cigar. "Come, Thorn," cried he, "here's a weed for you."

Captain Thorn glanced towards Mr. Carlyle: he appeared of a far more gentlemanly nature than Tom Herbert.

"You'll have one too, Carlyle," said Herbert, holding out his cigarcase. "Oh, I forgot; you are a muff; don't smoke one twice in a year. I say, how's Lady Isabel ?"

"Very ill still."

66

By Jove, is she, though? Tell her I am sorry to hear it, will you, Carlyle. But I say! will she smell the smoke ?" asked he, with a mixture of alarm and concern in his face.

Mr. Carlyle reassured him upon the point, and turned to Captain Thorn.

"Are you acquainted with this neighbourhood?"

Captain Thorn smiled. "I only reached West Lynne yesterday." "You were never here before, then?" continued Mr. Carlyle, setting down the last as a probably evasive answer.

"No."

"He and my brother Jack, you know, are in the same regiment," put in Tom Herbert, with scant ceremony. "Jack had invited him down for some fishing and that, and Thorn arrives. But he never sent word he was coming, you see; Jack had given him up, and is off on some Irish expedition, the deuce knows where. Precious unlucky that it should have happened so. Thorn says he shall cut short his stay, and go again."

The conversation turned upon fishing, and in the heat of argument the stranger mentioned a certain pond, and its famous eels-"the Low Pond." Mr. Carlyle looked at him, speaking, however, in a careless

manner.

"Which do you mean? We have two ponds not far apart, each called the 'Low Pond.'

"I mean the one on an estate about three miles from here: Squire Thorpe's, unless I am mistaken.

Mr. Carlyle smiled. "I think you must have been in the neighbourhood before, Captain Thorn. Squire Thorpe is dead, and the property has passed to his daughter's husband, and that Low Pond was filled up three years ago."

"I have heard a friend mention it," was Captain Thorn's reply, spoken in an indifferent tone, though he evidently wished not to pursue the subject.

Mr. Carlyle, by easy degrees, turned the conversation upon Swainson, the place whence Richard Hare's Captain Thorn was suspected to have come. The present Captain Thorn said he knew it "a little," he had once been "staying there a short time." Mr. Carlyle became nearly convinced that Barbara's suspicions were correct. The descriptions certainly agreed, so far as he could judge, in the most minute particulars.

The man before him wore two rings, a diamond-and a very beautiful diamond, too—on the one hand; a seal ring on the other; his hands were delicate to a degree, and his handkerchief, a cambric one of unusually fine texture, was not entirely guiltless of scent. Mr. Carlyle quitted the room for a moment, and summoned Joyce to him.

"My lady has been asking for you, sir," said Joyce.

"Tell her I will be up the moment these gentlemen leave. Joyce," he added, "find an excuse to come into the room presently; you can bring something or other in; I want you to look at this stranger who is with young Mr. Herbert. Notice him well; I fancy you may have seen

him before."

Mr. Carlyle returned to the room, leaving Joyce surprised. However, she presently followed, taking in some water, and lingered a few minutes, apparently placing the things on the table in better order.

When the two departed, Mr. Carlyle called Joyce, before proceeding to his wife's room. "Well ?" he questioned, "did you recognise him ?” "Not at all, sir. He seemed quite strange to me."

"Cast your thoughts back, Joyce. Did you never see him in years gone by ?"

Joyce looked puzzled, but she replied in the negative.

“Is he the man, think you, who used to ride over from Swainson to see Afy ?"

Joyce's face flushed crimson. "Oh, sir!" was all she uttered.

"The name is the same, Thorn: I thought it possible the men might be," observed Mr. Carlyle.

"Sir, I cannot say. I never saw that Captain Thorn but once, and I don't know-I don't know"-Joyce spoke slowly and with consideration

"that I should at all know him again. I did not think of him when I looked at this gentleman; but at any rate, no appearance in this one struck upon my memory as being familiar."

So, from Joyce Mr. Carlyle obtained no clue, one way or the other. The following day, he sought out Otway Bethel.

"Are you intimate with that Captain Thorn who is staying with the Herberts?" asked he.

“Yes,” answered Bethel, derisively, "if passing a couple of hours in his company can constitute intimacy. That's all I have seen of Thorn." "Are you sure?" pursued Mr. Carlyle.

"Sure!" returned Bethel; "why, what are you driving at now? I called in at Herbert's the night before last, and Tom asked me to stay the evening. Thorn had just come. A jolly bout we had; cigars and cold punch."

Bethel," said Mr. Carlyle, dashing to the point, "is it the Thorn who used go after Afy Hallijohn? Come, you can tell if you like." Bethel remained dumb for a moment, apparently with amazement. What a confounded lie!" uttered he, at length. 66 Why, it's no more that Thorn than-What Thorn ?" he broke off, abruptly. "You are equivocating, Bethel. The Thorn who was mixed up-or said to be in the Hallijohn affair. Is this the same man?"

"You are a fool, Carlyle: which is what I never took you to be yet," was Mr. Bethel's rejoinder, spoken in a savage tone. "I have told you that I never knew there was any Thorn mixed up with Afy, and I

should like to know why my word is not to be believed?

I never saw

Thorn in my life till I saw him the other night at the Herberts', and that I would take an oath to, if put to it."

Bethel quitted Mr. Carlyle with the last word, and the latter gazed after him, revolving points in his brain. The mention of Thorn's name (the one spoken of by Richard Hare) appeared to excite some sore feeling in Bethel's mind, arousing it to irritation. Mr. Carlyle remembered that it had done so previously, and now it had done so again: and yet, Bethel was an easy-natured man in general, far better-tempered than principled. That there was something hidden, some mystery connected with the affair, Mr. Carlyle felt sure, but he could not attempt so much as a guess at what it might be. And his interview with Bethel brought him no nearer the point he wished to find out whether this Thorn was the same man. In walking back to his office, he met Mr. Tom Herbert.

"Does Captain Thorn purpose making a long stay with you?" he stopped him to inquire.

"He's gone: I have just seen him off by the train," was the reply of Tom Herbert. “It seemed rather slow work for him without Jack, so he docked his visit, and says he'll pay us one when Jack's to the fore."

As Mr. Carlyle went home to dinner that evening, he entered the Grove, ostensibly to make a short call on Mrs. Hare. Barbara, on the tenterhooks of impatience, accompanied him outside when he departed, and walked down the path.

"What have you learnt ?" she eagerly asked.

"Nothing satisfactory," was the reply of Mr. Carlyle. And the man has left again."

"Left!" uttered Barbara.

Mr. Carlyle explained. He told her how they had come to his house the previous evening after Barbara's departure, and his encounter with Tom Herbert that day: he mentioned, also, his interview with Bethel.

"Can he have gone on purpose, fearing consequences ?" wondered Barbara.

Scarcely: or why should he have come ?"

"You did not suffer any word to escape you last night, causing him to suspect that he was doubted?”

"Not any.

You would make a bad lawyer, Barbara.”

"Who or what is he ?"

"An officer in her Majesty's service, in John Herbert's regiment. I ascertained no more. Tom said he was of good family. But I cannot

help suspecting it is the same man.'

"Can nothing more be done ?"

66

Nothing, in the present stage of the affair," concluded Mr. Carlyle, as he passed through the gate to continue his way. "We can only wait on again with what patience we may, hoping that time will bring about its own elucidation."

Barbara pressed her forehead down on the cold iron of the gate as his footsteps died away. "Ay, to wait on," she murmured, "to wait on in dreary pain; to wait on, perhaps for years, perhaps for ever! And poor Richard-wearing out his days in poverty and exile !"