y in his path, and began tossing it gently
in his hand. "It is a singular thing," he observed, presently, "that we
do not hear from Richard."

"Oh, very, very. And I know mamma distresses over it. A few words which
she let fall this morning, betrayed it plainly. I am no believer in
dreams," continued Barbara, "but I cannot deny that these, which take
such a hold upon mamma, do bear upon the case in a curious manner--the
one she had last night especially."

"What was it?" asked Mr. Carlyle.

"She dreamed that the real murderer was at West Lynne. She thought he
was at our house--as a visitor, she said, or like one making a morning
call--and we, she and I, were conversing with him about the murder. He
wanted to deny it--to put it on Richard; and he turned and whispered
to Otway Bethel, who stood behind his chair. This is another strange
thing," added Barbara, lifting her blue eyes in their deep earnestness
to the face of Mr. Carlyle.

"What is strange? You speak in enigmas, Barbara."

"I mean that Otway Bethel should invariably appear in her dreams. Until
that stolen visit of Richard's we had no idea he was near the spot
at the time, and yet he had always made a prominent feature in these
dreams."

"And who was the murderer--in your mamma's dream?" continued Mr.
Carlyle, speaking as gravely as though he were upon a subject that men
ridicule not.

"She cannot remember, except that he seemed a gentleman, and that we
held intercourse with him as such. Now, that again is remarkable. We
never told her, you know, of our suspicions of Captain Thorn."

"I think you must be becoming a convert to the theory of dreams
yourself, Barbara; you are so very earnest," smiled Mr. Carlyle.

"No, not to dreams; but I am earnest for my dear brother Richard's
sake."

"That Thorn does not appear in a hurry again to favor West Lynne with
his----"

Mr. Carlyle paused, for Barbara had hurriedly laid her hand upon his
arm, with a warning gesture. In talking they had wandered across
the park to its ornamental grounds, and were now in a quiet path,
overshadowed on the other side by a chain of imitation rocks. Seated
astride on the summit of these rocks, right above where Mr. Carlyle and
Barbara were standing was Francis Levison. His face was turned from them
and he appeared intent upon a child's whip, winding leather round its
handle. Whether he heard their footsteps or not, he did not turn. They
quickened their pace, and quitted the wa