bara," he seriously said. "I
am too busy to be otherwise."

"I know that; were you but a laboring man, toiling daily for the bread
you eat, you would be contented, feeling that you were fulfilling your
appointed duty to the utmost," she impulsively said; "but, Archibald,
can you not still be a busy man at West Lynne, although you do become
its representative?"

"If I could not, I should never accept the honor, Barbara. For some
few months of the year I must of necessity be in town; but Dill is an
efficient substitute, and I can run down for a week or so between times.
Part of Saturday, Sunday, and part of Monday, I can always pass here, if
I please. Of course these changes have their drawbacks, as well as their
advantages."

"Where would be the drawbacks in this?" she interrupted.

"Well," smiled Mr. Carlyle, "in the first place, I suppose you could not
always be with me."

Her hands fell--her color faded. "Oh, Archibald!"

"If I do become their member, I must go up to town as soon as elected,
and I don't think it will do for my little wife to be quitting her home
to travel about just now."

Barbara's face wore a very blank look. She could not dissent from Mr.
Carlyle's reasoning.

"And you must remain in London to the end of the session, while I am
here! Separated! Archibald," she passionately added, while the tears
gushed into her eyes. "I could not _live_ without you."

"Then what is to be done? Must I decline it?"

"Decline it! Oh, of course not! I know we are looking on the dark side
of things. I can go very well with you for a month--perhaps two."

"You think so?"

"I am sure so. And, mind you must not encourage mamma to talk me out
of it. Archibald," she continued, resting her head upon his breast, her
sweet face turned up beseechingly to his, "you would rather have me with
you, would you not?"

He bent his own down upon it. "What do you think about it, my darling?"

Once more--an opportune moment for her to enter--Lady Isabel. Barbara
heard her this time, and sprang away from her husband. Mr. Carlyle
turned round at the movement, and saw Madame Vine. She came forward, her
lips ashy, her voice subdued.

Six months now had she been at East Lynne, and had hitherto escaped
detection. Time and familiarity render us accustomed to most things--to
danger among the rest; and she had almost ceased to fear recognition,
living--so far as that point went--far more peaceably than she had done
at first. She