ill get the air too near from this window," replied Mr. Justice
Hare, opening the further one. Had his wife requested that the further
one to be opened, he would have opened the other; his own will and
opinions were ever paramount. Then he descended.

A minute or two, and up ran Barbara, looking bright and fair as the
morning, her pink muslin dress, with its ribbons and its open white lace
sleeves, as pretty as she was. She leaned over to kiss her mother.

"Mamma, are you ill? And you have been so well lately; you went to bed
so well last night. Papa says--"

"Barbara, dear," interrupted Mrs. Hare, glancing round the room with
dread, and speaking in a deep whisper, "I have had one of those dreadful
dreams again."

"Oh, mamma, how _can_ you!" exclaimed Barbara, starting up in vexation.
"How can you suffer a foolish dream to overcome you as to make you ill?
You have good sense in other matters, but, in this, you seem to put all
sense away from you."

"Child, will you tell me how I am to help it?" returned Mrs. Hare,
taking Barbara's hand and drawing her to her again. "I do not give
myself the dreams; I cannot prevent their making me sick, prostrate,
feverish. How can I help these things, I ask?"

At this moment the bedroom door was flung open, and the face of the
justice, especially stern and cross then was pushed in. So startled was
Mrs. Hare, that she shook till she shook the pillow, and Barbara sprang
away from the bed. Surely he had not distinguished their topic of
conversation!

"Are you coming to make the breakfast to-day, or not Barbara? Do you
expect me to make it?"

"She is coming this instant, Richard," said Mrs. Hare, her voice more
faint than usual. And the justice turned and stamped down again.

"Barbara, could your papa have heard me mention Richard?"

"No, no, mamma impossible: the door was shut. I will bring up your
breakfast myself and then you can tell me the dream."

Barbara flew after Mr. Hare, poured out his coffee, saw him settled
at his breakfast, with a plateful of grouse-pie before him, and then
returned upstairs with her mamma's tea and dry toast.

"Go on with your dream, mamma," she said.

"But your breakfast will be cold, child."

"Oh, don't mind that. Did you dream of Richard?"

"Not very much of Richard; except that the old and continuous trouble of
his being away and unable to return, seemed to pervade it all through.
You remember, Barbara, Richard asserted to us, in that s